Chapter four introduces us to Albert Moffit. At first glance, Mr. Moffit is very vanilla. He is nondescript and lives a boring life. However, we learn that Albert Moffit is delusional and convinced that he has been chosen to become a crime boss. He crosses paths with Richard Sparne in a chance meeting at the high school. Albert Moffit convinces the young man of his delusion. Richard Sparne and a group of his friends decide to become the mercenaries of Mr. Moffit.
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.
About a half hour before Jules Pranet was stiffing the rude waiter, Richard Sparne and his friends were leaving Albert Moffit’s home based sales agency. Moffit sold everything from credit card swipe machines to bulk sausage.
He lived, with his wife, in a quiet residential area on the east side of the city. Two-bedroom, red brick home on the corner of the street. Front door entrance in the center of the house, facing the street. Side walk leading to a porch with four concrete steps. Big oak tree in the center of the lawn and midsized tulips under the picture window. Lilac bushes on the sides of the house and a green hedge-rowed back yard. A side entrance led directly to Albert’s office.
He and his wife had no children and few friends. The recent influx of youthful visitors should have caused the neighborhood to gossip, but no tongues wagged.
Albert earned a median income and had his entire adult working life. His wife was never employed and for the last five or six years devoted her entire day and early evening to watching televangelists. She was a sucker for every pitch. Albert had suspended her check writing authority, but she still made telephone pledges. Their thirty-third wedding anniversary passed with neither of them remembering.
Albert was non-descript. His wife was frumpy. She had once been attractive, but Albert never thought about that anymore. Hadn’t for years. Mrs. Moffit should have noticed the increase in traffic to her husband’s office, and she probably did. Too many years of not caring prohibited her from commenting about all the kids coming to their home.
No police computers contained Albert Moffit’s name. He had never been in trouble, paid his bills on time, drove his car like an aged rectory housekeeper, and seldom drank more than one or two alcoholic beverages.
One day, about two months shy of his thirty-third wedding anniversary, God, or someone, or something, contacted Albert and told him he was the heir apparent to all of organized crime’s activities in his geographic locale. No five families, no commission, just him. Albert had always suspected that a traitorous ancestor, somewhere, had removed the vowels from the end of his name and this communiqué sated his suspicions.
He was primed to assume his rightful position. First, those under him, the people who enjoyed the illegal profits from his protection, had to be taught a lesson. No one was honoring his position. No one was paying tribute to him. That had to change. Once the awesome and vengeful power of his rule was recognized, everyone would cower at the mention of the name, Albert Moffit.
Richard Sparne and a number of Sparne’s acquaintances became Moffit’s terrible scepter.
Chapter 4
About a half hour before Jules Pranet was stiffing the rude waiter, Richard Sparne and his friends were leaving Albert Moffit’s home based sales agency. Moffit sold everything from credit card swipe machines to bulk sausage.
He lived, with his wife, in a quiet residential area on the east side of the city. Two-bedroom, red brick home on the corner of the street. Front door entrance in the center of the house, facing the street. Side walk leading to a porch with four concrete steps. Big oak tree in the center of the lawn and midsized tulips under the picture window. Lilac bushes on the sides of the house and a green hedge-rowed back yard. A side entrance led directly to Albert’s office.
He and his wife had no children and few friends. The recent influx of youthful visitors should have caused the neighborhood to gossip, but no tongues wagged.
Albert earned a median income and had his entire adult working life. His wife was never employed and for the last five or six years devoted her entire day and early evening to watching televangelists. She was a sucker for every pitch. Albert had suspended her check writing authority, but she still made telephone pledges. Their thirty-third wedding anniversary passed with neither of them remembering.
Albert was non-descript. His wife was frumpy. She had once been attractive, but Albert never thought about that anymore. Hadn’t for years. Mrs. Moffit should have noticed the increase in traffic to her husband’s office, and she probably did. Too many years of not caring prohibited her from commenting about all the kids coming to their home.
No police computers contained Albert Moffit’s name. He had never been in trouble, paid his bills on time, drove his car like an aged rectory housekeeper, and seldom drank more than one or two alcoholic beverages.
One day, about two months shy of his thirty-third wedding anniversary, God, or someone, or something, contacted Albert and told him he was the heir apparent to all of organized crime’s activities in his geographic locale. No five families, no commission, just him. Albert had always suspected that a traitorous ancestor, somewhere, had removed the vowels from the end of his name and this communiqué sated his suspicions.
He was primed to assume his rightful position. First, those under him, the people who enjoyed the illegal profits from his protection, had to be taught a lesson. No one was honoring his position. No one was paying tribute to him. That had to change. Once the awesome and vengeful power of his rule was recognized, everyone would cower at the mention of the name, Albert Moffit.
Richard Sparne and a number of Sparne’s acquaintances became Moffit’s terrible scepter.
Albert had brokered the sale of twenty-seven computers to the local high school. The day after receiving his vision, he was scheduled to collect payment from the treasurer. He went to the school office and then circulated through the classrooms, to double check the computer order.
While walking the halls, he ventured into the gym. It was empty, with the exception of a rangy kid shooting baskets. As Albert was walking through, the kid missed a shot and, as fate would have it, the ball ended up in Albert’s hands.
The Kid was an only child. Good parents. He did very well in school and was an excellent athlete. Popular with the girls too. Both parents could see the end of their arduous trek. They had devoted eighteen years of their lives to doing everything possible for their child. Once he was in college, they planned to spend a lot of time together, catering to their joint needs.
It was the end of the basketball season, but the Kid continued to practice. He didn’t get the major scholarship he worked all those years for, but he would walk on and show everyone. He was hungry and those asshole recruiters were blind. Who knew? A professional career would probably follow, after college. Big bucks and women to burn. That one break was all he needed.
Both parents tried to soothe the hurt they saw when no offers came through for the kid. They thought they had succeeded. They always had in the past.
As Albert held the ball, the Kid walked over to retrieve it. Richard said, “Thank you.”
Albert eyed the Kid as he was handing the ball over. “You look like a pretty strong kid.”
“I can hold my own.”
Moffit continued, “How’d you like to get in on the ground floor of something big?”
“Like what?”
“Do you know who I am?”
The Kid looked at Albert with big, semi-wary eyes, as young, smug gullibles often do. He didn’t have time for kooks, but he was impressed with the question. “No. Should I?”
Moffit said, “No, you shouldn’t. In fact, it’s better for you if you don’t.
The statement was an invitation to dig deeper. The Kid bit, like a hungry puppy. “Who are you?”
Albert paused, stylishly. “I’m the man that has the final say. I’m the invisible empire.”
It wasn’t the answer the young man expected. Richard was going to leave gracefully. He was forming the impression that the guy was a nut. As the Kid was about to say, “Nice to meet you,” and return to practice, Albert said, “I can give you a break that will make you an important man. A man to be feared and respected.”
It was B-movie dialogue. The kid was too young and inexperienced to recognize posturing. And he was hungry. And mad. The breaks had always somehow avoided him. He deserved to be important. Maybe this was it. Maybe it was time to grab the ring. Richard had a date, later in the evening, with his new girlfriend, Bobbie. She looked hot. He was hoping to get lucky. He decided he’d stop and see Albert if Bobbie held out. The Moffit doorbell rang at about 10:00 that night.
It was easier than anyone could have imagined. The Kid was convinced that he would become Mr. Moffit’s right hand man. He was in on the ground floor. Once the petty thieves and hustlers fell back into line, Richard Sparne would be a force to be reckoned with.
He knew it could happen because he had seen it over and over again on television and at the movies. Years of hard work would finally pay off. He would straighten out all the scumbags and assholes; restore order. College was still there, but that was later. He couldn’t believe his blind luck, meeting a man as important as Albert Moffit. Perseverance was a virtue.
That night, Albert gave Richard twenty dollars. Richard understood that for a man of Albert’s position, money was unimportant. The amount didn’t matter; he was now on the direct payroll of the mob’s most important representative. The big money would come in a couple of weeks or a month at most.
He vowed to never bounce another basketball.
Over the next month, Richard brought about fifteen young men to meet Mr. Moffit. All sizes, races, and nationalities. More than half of them left laughing. Their names were kept, to be dealt with later. Enough believed.
Once a hard-core group was assembled, Mr. Moffit revealed his true position in the criminal hierarchy. Everyone understood that crime bosses no longer lived in elaborate mansions, guarded by armed thugs. In order to function, a “don” had to blend in with his surroundings. No publicity. No displays of wealth. But they all recognized his force and power. Soon they would be rich and important.
As Sue Donas was standing in her bedroom, clad in her pink robe, preparing to take a bath, trying to decide what to wear to dinner, Albert Moffit was filing away his list of names and addresses of people that had purchased dinner coupon books he brokered for a church bazaar. Only fourteen books sold. Cheap bastards. They couldn’t even support their church. Jim Donas was the first name on that list of purchasers. Albert Moffit copied his name and address onto a 3 x 5 index card.
Richard Sparne and three of his friends were milling in Moffit’s office. Moffit told them to sit down and pay attention. He handed the index card to Sparne. “This fucking guy has worked for us for years. He pushes dope and pussy. Three months ago, he stopped making protection payments. There’s a group of people out there that have stopped. I called him this morning to give him a chance to do the right thing. Make up. Come back into the fold. Do you know what he told me?.... He told me to go fuck myself... Me...”
Sparne and the others reacted accordingly. They understood that an attack on their boss was an attack on them. The scumbags and assholes had to be taught a lesson. The Kid said, “Mr. Moffit, you tell us what you want done. This shit has to stop.”
Moffit paused for dramatic effect. “This low-life cock-sucker has to die. The rest of them have to see what happens when you treat ‘Our thing’ with disrespect. I want him cut up. I want his throat slit... Go fuck myself... Me...”
Everyone was quiet. Moffit continued, “Kill the cock-sucker. Then find our money. Bring it back to me.”
Richard stood and said, “Mr. Moffit, it’s done.”
The Kid read the name and address from the index card, again, and slid it into the back pocket of his jeans. He stood silent, unmoving, for a few seconds and shyly said, “Where should we get the knives from?”
“What?”
“Knives. I don’t have a knife with me.” The other kids shook their shoulders and mumbled things.
Moffit stood and said, “Wait. I’ll be right back.” He disappeared through the door between his office and living quarters.
On his way to the kitchen, he passed the front room. His wife was watching some con artist with a southern accent. The “preacher” was standing, head tilted up, eyes closed, holding some type of book, speaking some unrecognizable, silly, sing-song language. The only recognizable words Moffit heard were some variation of “Bless me Father...”
In the kitchen he selected four good sized knives from a rack. He held them in one hand and hid them against his leg as he returned to his office. If his wife would have looked, she wouldn’t have seen them.
He passed the knives out. Each member of the gang received their weapons with a stoic demeanor. Like they were witnessing some solemn, high religious rite. Once armed they started to leave. As they crept out into the night, their mentor said, “Don’t forget to bring the knives back.”
Albert tidied up the office. He was nothing, if not neat. High school kids were nothing, if not messy. Satisfied with his housekeeping, he locked the office doors and proceeded to the front room. His wife was absent. Albert assumed she had retired. He switched on the television and, as a lark, settled into a sermon, waiting to be saved.