We reserved the right to refuse service to anyone. She was not welcome in the store. We catered to police and other gun users. Not crazies.
She was also kooky as all get out. She wore priest like robes with a hood, had that swastika scar on her forehead and had crazy empty eyes. . . I just did not want anyone associated with Manson in the store. We did not need her making scenes.
She'd come in and want to buy a gun and I'd tell her I was not going to sell her one. I'd tell her to get out and not come back, but every week, sometimes twice a week, she'd be back. She lived about a block away from our 22nd and J Street location. . . didn't drive, and often walked around. Sometimes she walked around carrying a sign saying "Free Charley!" or "Helter Skelter!" Sometimes she had a pile of hand outs saying the same thing, with details about how wonderful Charles Manson was, the nearest thing to Jesus Christ, etc., . . I wish I had kept some she nailed up on the trees and telephone pole in front of the store which I'd take down and toss. They'd probably be worth money on eBay these days!
Funny thing, we seemed to be a magnet for these "in the 1970s in the news" things. We were also visited and cased by the SLA, the Synbionese Liberation Army, the day before they robbed the Crocker Bank in Carmichael˘—a suburb of Sacramento—and killed Mrs. Myrna Opsahl during the robbery.
We did not even know they had been in the store until after they'd been killed and/or captured and the story was told, although I remember a bunch come in, including a couple that I recall wearing army fatigue like outfits which were probably Bill and Emily Harris, and an asian woman (Wendy Yoshimura) with a white gal (likely Patty Hearst). It turned out they were holed up about two blocks from our store and had thought to hit us to steal guns but decided we were too hard to hit because both of my clerks and I were armed, and there were cops in the store, plus access was limited through only one door. . . so they left.
Looking back, when we were interviewed by the FBI, they determined that I was showing a fully automatic AR-15 to two sheriff's deputies at the time—we had a class C, Federal Firearms license as a police supply which allowed us to have machine guns for police sales—and that might have been what changed their minds. When the story came out, they didn't say why they decided not to hit us, but I am thankful I was completely ignorant of their visit at the time. They never approached me, or either of my clerks. They merely looked at some of the used rifles and shotguns, looked at the handguns in the show cases and left.
its maddening.
Wow! You could write an interesting book.