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.” 

Transcript

Chapter 18

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.” 

“Was Zola one of them?” 

“I... I don’t know Mr. Moffit. There was a lady behind the bar, but I don’t know if her name was Zola.” 

“Yes, that was Zola.... Will the message go out?” 

The Kid proudly said, “I’m sure it will. This should straighten everybody out.” 

“Good. I spent some time today going over my organizational charts. I want you to take over some things, very soon.” Moffit stared at his boy, then popped the question, “Are you ready?” 

Sparne couldn’t answer quick enough, “I’m ready, Mr. Moffit.” He thought he knew, but asked anyway. “What will I be in charge of?” 

“I need someone I can trust to run the girls. I’ve got girls sitting on their asses, not earning money. Someone has to get them back in line. Were there any girls in Zola’s?” 

Sparne responded, “No. Just Zola and three guys.” 

Albert frowned. “See what I mean. There should have been five or six girls in there, peddling their asses. Do you think you can fix that?” 

The Kid beamed. “You know you can trust me, Mr. Moffit. And believe me, I know how to handle bitches. They’ll be thanking us for the opportunity to work.” 

“I believe you are the right person, Richard. I knew it when I picked you. Now, let me get back to work. I have arrangements to make. Meetings to set up. If the warning we just issued works, I’m gonna need you ready. I should know soon, a couple days at most. Now, go. But remember, be ready.” 

The kid was euphoric. He was tempted to go back to Ricardo’s to tell him how close they were, but he didn’t. Ricardo would know soon enough. So would everybody else. He drove home instead. 

In his ebullience, he forgot the shotguns in the trunk. When he walked in, his father was awake. Mr. Sparne asked a question. Richard refused to answer, didn’t even acknowledge his father. Instead he went straight to his room. Later, he heard his father crying. 

Moffit returned to the divan. He thought he heard his wife say something, but ignored it. Albert channel surfed until he found the proper looking preacher. The sing song came. The message was exactly as he had expected. 

Grandisha left Margie’s and returned to the station. Two o’clock in the morning and it was buzzing like a Turkish bazaar. Ray had been up for about twenty hours and was starting to run out of gas. He wanted to make sure all the gears were properly oiled and ready to roll, before leaving. 

Work was delegated, information collated, people assigned, and a daily central meeting planned. The first one was scheduled for about six hours later. Attendance was mandatory, unless personally excused by the Lieutenant. 

As Ray was getting ready to leave, he saw Margie walk in. She looked somber, but refreshed. The buzz suddenly stopped. Men and women stoically approached her and offered their condolences. Margie accepted them with a pained, forced smile. 

When the crush of consolers thinned, Ray left his office and approached her. He repeated the condolence mantra. She accepted his solace just as she received the others, without a hint of their prior coupling. As he was exiting the building, he thought, I’ll be damned, she was right. 

Fifteen miles from the station, Joe Crownder held his hand up for last call in the sleazy little bar he called home. It was a favorite hangout for white power freaks. A couple of patrolmen came in and told him about “Zola’s.” They hadn’t been at the scene, but the grapevine was fast. Being regulars, they remained with Crownder and carped about the sorry state of their country. And their bad luck for being born fifty years too late. When the final drinks came, they toasted Margie’s tragedy. 

Donald Recker was driven home in a squad car. Some neighbors were still up and shook their heads in disgust at the sight of Donald exiting the police vehicle. His wife was awake and didn’t believe his explanation. 

The ensuing argument woke the kids. He finally prevailed upon her to call the detective bureau. Donald produced a card Grandisha had given him. She called and the story was confirmed. 

The detective who took the call didn’t mention the euphemism that had already been coined to describe his near miss. The luck of the piss. Donald fell asleep in his wife’s arms. She cried the balance of the night. 

Margie spent the deep hours before sunup at the station. She didn’t want to be home, alone. She called relatives, most of whom knew something was wrong by the lateness of the ring. Her sister and her children were spared until daylight. 

John Lupico stopped in and expressed his sorrow. He had her sign a form identifying her husband. She was spared the actual chore. 

Margie remained in good spirits until crashing at her sister’s house later that afternoon. She had been up for thirty four straight hours. Everything that had to be accomplished was completed. 

Rosita Morales returned home from work by cab, just as Ricardo was returning from the revelers. Ricardo’s mother contributed to the household these days by cleaning rooms at a motel butting up to an alley where she used to service clients.

They met by the front door, the mother and child reunion, and held hands. Ricardo flashed a wide infectious smile from deep in his heart and ached to tell her about the new house. Rosita gave him five dollars. Ricardo took the money because he knew it made her happy. 

He waited downstairs while she bathed and went to sleep. Later, he put the money back in her purse. He then climbed in his own bed, and was asleep in a heartbeat. 

Grandisha was startled to find a body in his bed. The big ole, stooped, tough guy almost screamed like a little girl. The surprised grunts he uttered were sufficient to rouse a naked Carol Lombard. Her child was well, and her mother suggested she take the night off and enjoy herself. She had dozed off about three hours earlier and knew nothing of the night’s events. 

Nothing remotely memorable occurred between the two. 

Coincidentally, Jules and Liz Pranet had finally slept soundly through a single night.