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.
Chapter 15
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.
Here and there between the bottled hedgerows, pictures of little league and mushball teams smiled openly. Every fifteen feet or so, old looking, hand painted signs provided quaint gems such as, “No Cussin, No Spittin, No Gamblin.”
Under the many liquor possibilities, in the dead midpoint of the bar, an antique, grey cash register sat, keeping track of all who partook in the nightly offerings. Across from the cash register, centrally located, spigots with familiar names suggested other alternatives to the hard stuff.
The wall across from the bar beckoned with adult video games, such as poker and blackjack. It also contained a large, smudged, circular clock, with numbers, but patrons seldom paid much heed to that electrical device. A huge, brick fireplace completed the wall adornment. In the winter, it transformed the place into a cozy refuge. In the summer, it took up space that could have been filled with additional adult video games.
The back half of the rectangle contained square, white splotched tables, balancing chrome napkin holders, under somewhat bright lights. Each table held four chairs. A wall separated the seating area from an elongated, steamy kitchen. Hamburgers were the rage, unless it was Friday night. Friday night was deep fried, Lake Perch. Boned, if that was your preference.
Richard drove his father’s car through the alley and parked at an angle against “Zola’s.” Two other empty cars were present. The boys remained in the vehicle for a brief time. Morales looked at his watch. “It’s only 10:30. Mr. Moffit said to go in between eleven and twelve. Maybe we’d better wait.”
Sparne smiled smugly. He was enjoying making executive decisions. “He was just giving us an estimate of what time we should do it. What fucking difference would it make, if we do it at 10:30 or 11:00.” Morales accepted the leadership. He was satisfied with second in command. “You’re right, let’s do it.” The third kid didn’t offer an opinion. He knew he wasn’t in their class.
They exited and went to the back of the vehicle. Sparne opened the trunk and passed out the shotguns. He opened a box of magnum shells and each teen filled the chamber of their respective weapons. It was time for executive decisions again.
Sparne pointed to the boulevard entrance. “You two go in that way. Shoot every living thing. I’ll take this side entrance.” Morales nodded, and he and the other boy walked to the street. When the two reached the front entrance, Morales and Sparne made eye contact, then both entered.
The Kid was surprised by a man approaching him at the door, obviously leaving. He barely got his shotgun up, but he did. He fired once at almost point blank range, ripping out the man’s guts, pumped, and fired a chest shot. The force of the pattern hurled the individual against his vacant bar stool. The exiter never had a chance to say goodbye, hello, or sorry, to anybody, for anything.
Morales and the other boy were startled by the sharp rumble of the double blast. It took them a few seconds to redirect their attention. Two men sitting at the bar, three empty stools between them, looked over their shoulders, toward the sound of the reports. They were frozen in time by the residue of smoke and the star burst, bloody pieces filling the air.
The bartender, an older, plain looking, short lady, wearing a smeared, white apron and something that resembled a snood, stared with an open mouth. An unsettling silence followed, like the calm immediately after a shattering clap of thunder.
Ricardo filled the void, first with a deep, resonant “Maricon” and then with shotgun blasts. The two men sitting at the bar were violently flung against their wooden barrier, one after the other, within seconds, upper torsos and heads knocking over chalice like, thick glass mugs half filled with amber liquids. The force of the impact broke the sturdy goblets and covered the top of the bar with a pool of shards. They slumped, again, one after another, in almost choreographed fashion, off the bar stools to the floor. Ricardo pumped an extra round into each of their lifeless bodies.
Hearing the curse uttered by the stocky Hispanic kid, and seeing him, out of the corner of her eye, raise an ugly, cold looking, black steel device, the small woman tried to run to the kitchen. There was an opening between the end of the bar and the thick doored entrance to the hamburger grills and grease baskets. The portal meant to seal cooking odors in their place.
Sparne, still standing near the side doorway, shot her as she entered the gap. The pellet pattern had sufficient room to splay and rudely threw her against a stack of empty beer bottle cases. Her soft stature broke no glass. The thick, cardboard containers teetered a bit, then settled, rigid and quiet. She hit the floor soundlessly. It took about twenty-five seconds to kill four people.
Ricardo had fired four shells, Richard three; the other boy hadn’t raised his weapon. He had remained near the front door, as Morales advanced to finish the slaughter of the two men on the floor. Through the haze and stench of the aftermath, the boy walked to the middle of the bar and surveyed the length of the countertop.
To his right, near the bar’s end, sat an empty cocktail glass, short red straws next to it, in almost abacus style. Close to him, the shards of beer soaked broken glass. To his left, four stools from the picture window, a full bottle of Budweiser, and a two-thirds full, narrow glass, on a napkin next to it. The significance didn’t register. He was more concerned with trying to figure out how to impress his bosses.
Morales walked to the front of the empty fireplace, to face Sparne. They both had greedy looks on their faces. Morales said, “Fucking shoot-out at the O.K. Corral.” Sparne responded, “Fuck yeah.” Sparne raised his hand to high five Morales, then both swung hard.
The other boy approached them. He cockily said, “Want me to put another round in that ugly little bitch?” Sparne shook his head no, “We’ve been in here long enough, let’s get out” As they were leaving through the side door, Sparne said, “The fuckers will sit up now!”
In the parking lot they returned the shotguns to the trunk. Sparne had rags near the weapons, which he passed out. They wiped their faces and hands, leaned against the car, and rubbed the cloth against the soles of their shoes. Sparne’s Mom and Dad would be using the car the next day. He didn’t want to have to explain any spots on the car. They entered the vehicle, backed up to the alley, and disappeared into the night.
Donald Recker had drained his third Budweiser into the glass and set the bottle on the edge of the bar. The bartender saw the empty bottle and replaced it with a full one. She returned to the other end of the bar. Recker took a drink from the glass, and decided he couldn’t wait any longer, or he would piss his pants.
He had tried to hold out but couldn’t; the first beer piss somehow magically opened the kidney valves. It seemed like once you made the first trip, you had to go every five minutes. He left the stool and walked the length of the bar, towards the bathroom at the other end of the tavern. As he walked by the patron on the other end, he heard the bartender say, “You’re really leaving after five?” The man she was talking to was finishing his mixed drink, he didn’t answer. Donald glanced sharply at the wall over his right shoulder.
Once in the shabby room, Donald pissed quickly, washed and then wiped his hands on the pulled down, dirty linen from the squeaky machine, and paused to look at himself in the mirror. The first ka-boom startled him. The second, in rapid succession, froze him.
He heard a voice yell out a couple of words he didn’t understand, and then the eerie cacophony of what he realized were shotgun blasts. He thought he heard mumbled sounds, like people talking, and then a door closing, and then complete silence.
Donald was shaking. He hid in the bathroom for fifteen minutes. Sat on the toilet, fully clothed. The name Corazon Amurao, kept popping in his mind. It blotted out thinking about what could have happened.
Finally he opened the door, slowly, only an inch or so at a time. He could see the length of the pub. No one. He created just enough space to squeeze his body out of the bathroom.
Donald crept through the well lit tables, approached the bodies and averted his eyes. The woman was positioned near the wall pay phone. He had to straddle her body to place his call. Once the Police were notified, he left through the front door and stood on the boulevard, waiting.
When the authorities arrived, Donald was crying.