Chapter 18: A Ferris Wheel

 Chapter 18  starts with Richard Sparne dropping off Richard Morales after their night at Zola's.

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.     

Sparne and Morales dropped the other kid off in his quiet neighborhood. He walked across freshly mown grass and through shadows of large oak trees. A dark shape moved slowly behind an illuminated curtained window. The door opened before the other kid hit the porch. Sparne had driven away by then. 

Morales wanted to go home. Richard navigated the vehicle around the still lively dead end. He pulled into the driveway, and asked, “Will I have any problem getting out of here?” 

Ricardo glanced over towards the assemblage. The hardcores were the only ones that remained. Mostly males. “No. They won’t fuck with you. I’ll make sure they know who you are.” Sparne nodded his head and laid open the palm of his hand. “Good work tonight, man. Probably another week and we’ll be running things.” Ricardo slapped the open palm and said, “Fuckin A, man. More pussy and money than we’ve ever seen. Maybe I’ll buy these fuckers a... a ferris wheel. Set it up right in the middle.” 

Both laughed at the thought. Ricardo exited the vehicle, and rather than go inside, strutted through the party holdovers. He was thinking of the best way to surprise his mother with a new house. He knew it would be soon. 

Sparne circled the pear shaped course slowly. He sat rigid in the car, like a visiting dignitary. These crooks probably already know what happened tonight, he thought. They’re afraid to fuck with me. Good thing. Ferris wheel. Hah. That’s about all they’re good for. Play around like a bunch of bitches. 

Albert Moffit was sitting on one end of the divan, his wife the other. He couldn’t remember the last time they had spoken. No matter. A group of blond haired, blue eyed teenagers were on television. They were testifying about how their lives had changed since they had accepted Jesus. An oily looking moderator was issuing exaggerated sighs with each new revelation. About every ninety seconds. 

Moffit heard the words from the group, but they didn’t register. He was glued to the set, but not for the usual spiels. He was waiting for the special language. It was directed to him. 

At first, he was only able to pick up bits and pieces. Then, pow. Every syllable and gesture. Now that he understood completely, he endured hours and hours of scam, waiting for that two or three minute burst, when the sing song made sense. Told him things he had to do. Praised him for things he had done. The mediums had even mentioned him by name. Announced his fame and glory to all who could decipher the argot. 

The side doorbell rang. Moffit excused himself politely, got no response, and trod to his office. He admitted Sparne. Took the shotgun, returned it to its case and closet, and went back. The Kid was seated in one of the chairs fronting the desk. 

Albert reached his chair and sat. He allowed the mood to deepen. The Kid fidgeted. Finally Moffit said, “Were my orders carried out?” 

“They were carried out perfectly, Mr. Moffit. We went in at 11:00 and took everyone by surprise. No one was left standing.” 

Albert nodded his head solemnly, “How many?” Richard thought for a split second and said, “Three... No, I’m sorry, four. There were four people in the bar, we got 'em all.”