Chapter 15: An Index Card

Chapter 15 starts with Richard Sparne loading his father's trunk with shotguns. 

Many Cones is a podcast novel based on true crime. The murders inspiring this crime fiction took place 30 miles from Chicago in Northwest Indiana, and captivated the area from the initial brutal crime scene all the way through and beyond discovery of a shockingly bizarre motive.     

The Kid placed the shotguns in the trunk of his father’s car, next to Moffit’s. His parents were in the house, watching television, unaware of his activities. Outside it was dark, so he didn’t have to sneak around. He checked his back pocket to make sure he had the index card, then left to pick up Ricardo. 

There was a party going on. Fifteen Hispanic males eyed the white kid behind the wheel, viciously. Alcohol, drugs, and ethnic posturing intensified the confrontational craving of the young men. Sparne slowly skirted the outer perimeter of the pear shaped dead end. Enough good vibes remained, from the balance of the revelers, to prevent any overt displays of hatred towards the intruder. When Richard pulled into the Morales driveway, all cold stares returned to warmer pursuits. 

The Kid sat and watched as Ricardo, standing in the doorway, hugged his mother. He held her hand, said something, and then came towards the car. Once he was in the vehicle, Sparne navigated his way back around the festivities. Richard asked, “Are these parties any good?” Ricardo answered, “They used to be.” 

They drove to a third teenager’s home. A friend of Ricardo’s. He had been with them at the pimp’s apartment. Both agreed he was an up and coming soldier. Plus, he was the only other kid in the group who had ever fired a shotgun. 

The third kid lived on a quiet residential street ten minutes from Ricardo. Sparne parked on the street. Morales walked to the front door, chatted for a second with parents, and returned with a baby faced, cold blooded killer. 

When the two entered the vehicle, the dome light shone on Richard, holding the index card in his hand. He had read the address again, and hunched forward to return the card to his back pocket. Ricardo asked if he knew where “Zola’s” was located. The Kid said, “Yep.” Once the card was pocketed, they were on their way. 

The two more important participants talked about how this hit would finally get the message out to their underlings. The third teen sat in awe, listening, thankful to be associated with these two obviously important men. 

“Zola’s” was the second structure from the end of the block. It was a long rectangular building with a short side facing a fairly busy, four lane boulevard. A large picture window, framing the busy street, contained a bright neon sign that nightly announced its existence. 

Between the establishment and a third business, an empty lot loomed. It was covered by hardpan clay, severely rutted. A large notice, painted on the long side of the rectangle, warned that only patrons of “Zola’s” could park in the lot. There was an entrance at the corner of the bar, facing the boulevard, and a back door, of sorts, in the middle of the painted warning. 

The private parking lot was reached through an alley, which ran the length of the block, behind the establishments. Patrons usually angled their vehicles against the side of the building. Sometimes cars reached the lot by jumping over the curb and sidewalk from the boulevard, but not often. 

A long, shiny, mahogany bar ran from the middle of the picture window, half way back through the structure. Cheap, cushioned, bar stools, with no backs, stood at attention under a curved wooden lip. Behind the bar, rows and rows of various elixirs basked in the refracted glow of dim overhead lights.