Chapter 11: A Medium

 Chapter 11 starts with Albert Moffit and his wife enjoying some televangelism.  

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.    

Albert Moffit had been standing behind his wife for some time. She was seated in the corner of an old, brightly speckled divan. Her body countervailed the life colors. She sat straight, as if at attention.  

On the tube, a slick haired gentleman with a southern accent was squinting baby blues, and acknowledging invalids across the television world; he had been alerted by God and was listing out each malady. Every so often he mentioned a first name and offered comfort. God would not alert him to the pain and suffering without first making sure the victims were watching television.  

The silver tongue sat, laid his hands on a dark brown, ornate volume of something or other. He pushed himself ramrod sharp, shoulders hunched, eyes closed with obvious effort, and began intoning. “Bless me Father . ..” Suddenly he seized up, began shuddering, slowed the tics and shook his head from side to side. Eyes still tightly shut. While rotating his head, he spewed sing-song, enclitic homonyms. Melodic nonsense.  

Just as quickly as the tongues came, they vanished. The proud medium settled into himself, calm, all smiles. He opened his eyes slowly, and in a Mr. Roger’s voice, said, “That was God. God has a special message for... “  

When his wife began her vigil to huckster divinity, Moffit used to openly laugh at the scam. That was some years ago.  His actions drove his wife further into herself. In the beginning, she would argue with Albert. Explain her interest and attachment as relaxation. Then she stopped listening to Albert. He stopped reacting, stopped laughing, stopped speaking to her.  

Now the Divine Presentations engendered no responses in Moffit. He stood slack-jawed, unfocused, and allowed the rantings to enter his consciousness, without apparent recognition.  

As the preacher was quoting, “A special message for...”  Moffit heard a heavy rapping on his office door. He left the front room. Did not consider that he would never learn the recipient of that special message. His wife never acknowledged that he was standing close enough to reach out and touch.  

Albert opened the door. Richard Sparne strutted in, as self important men often do. He remained standing until Moffit extended an arm, indicating a chair.  

The Kid appreciated his own sense of comfort in the presence of power. He ached to continue impressing and bypassed pleasantries. “I’m in the process of recruiting some girls for our stables.”  

Moffit feigned interest, not sure if he followed the Kid’s lead in. “Tell me about it.” 

“There’s a ton of good looking bitches in my school. I figure if we start them young enough, they’ll bring top dollar on the market.”  

Moffit was still not certain which market the Kid was talking about. He sat without comment.  

Transcript

Chapter 11

Albert Moffit had been standing behind his wife for some time. She was seated in the corner of an old, brightly speckled divan. Her body countervailed the life colors. She sat straight, as if at attention.  

On the tube, a slick haired gentleman with a southern accent was squinting baby blues, and acknowledging invalids across the television world; he had been alerted by God and was listing out each malady. Every so often he mentioned a first name and offered comfort. God would not alert him to the pain and suffering without first making sure the victims were watching television.  

The silver tongue sat, laid his hands on a dark brown, ornate volume of something or other. He pushed himself ramrod sharp, shoulders hunched, eyes closed with obvious effort, and began intoning. “Bless me Father . ..” Suddenly he seized up, began shuddering, slowed the tics and shook his head from side to side. Eyes still tightly shut. While rotating his head, he spewed sing-song, enclitic homonyms. Melodic nonsense.  

Just as quickly as the tongues came, they vanished. The proud medium settled into himself, calm, all smiles. He opened his eyes slowly, and in a Mr. Roger’s voice, said, “That was God. God has a special message for... “  

When his wife began her vigil to huckster divinity, Moffit used to openly laugh at the scam. That was some years ago.  His actions drove his wife further into herself. In the beginning, she would argue with Albert. Explain her interest and attachment as relaxation. Then she stopped listening to Albert. He stopped reacting, stopped laughing, stopped speaking to her.  

Now the Divine Presentations engendered no responses in Moffit. He stood slack-jawed, unfocused, and allowed the rantings to enter his consciousness, without apparent recognition.  

As the preacher was quoting, “A special message for...”  Moffit heard a heavy rapping on his office door. He left the front room. Did not consider that he would never learn the recipient of that special message. His wife never acknowledged that he was standing close enough to reach out and touch.  

Albert opened the door. Richard Sparne strutted in, as self important men often do. He remained standing until Moffit extended an arm, indicating a chair.  

The Kid appreciated his own sense of comfort in the presence of power. He ached to continue impressing and bypassed pleasantries. “I’m in the process of recruiting some girls for our stables.”  

Moffit feigned interest, not sure if he followed the Kid’s lead in. “Tell me about it.” 

“There’s a ton of good looking bitches in my school. I figure if we start them young enough, they’ll bring top dollar on the market.”  

Moffit was still not certain which market the Kid was talking about. He sat without comment.  

Richard interpreted the silence as a request for more information. He continued, “I took one of ‘em out tonight. We were in my car. I ordered her to strip. Her clothes were off in a flash. I could tell she was a little scared, but I figured that was a good thing.”  

Albert finally recognized the train of thought. “What made you think she was scared?”  

Richard saw the inconsistency. He rebounded. “When she got her clothes off, she tried to cover her tits with one hand and her pussy with the other.”  

“And?” Moffit asked.  

“I told her to move her hands and sit straight with her arms at her side. She hesitated. I slapped her. Not hard. I know not to damage the merchandise. She moved her hands away.”  

“That’s nice Richard, but our clients can see tits and pussy on TV, at home, for free. When they pay us, they expect a little more.”  

The Kid was ready. You don’t see “Taxi Driver” or “Vice Squad” and not know how to handle bitches. He slouched a bit, pimplike, and forced a sneer. “I ordered her to unzip my pants and give me head.” Richard paused. Albert was silent again.  

The Kid was on a roll. He decided virginity would be a good thing. “She went to cover herself again, but I grabbed her arm. I said ‘Give me head, bitch.’ She said she had never done that. I sat for a second, slapped her again, not hard, and said, ‘Do it.’ After the slap, she leaned over and sucked me off. I told her to swallow if she knew what was good for her. She did.”  

Moffit was still silent, but he was nodding his head in obvious admiration. Sparne continued. “When she was done, I made her sit naked. I put my arm around her and told her she was my number one girl. I was gonna fuck her, but since she had never given head, I figured maybe she was a virgin.”  

The Kid caught his breath and went on with his tale. “I knew better than to trust the lying bitch though, so I ordered her to spread her legs and felt for myself. I touched that thing virgins have. She wasn’t lying. I’m glad I didn’t fuck her.  I can get laid ‘any time. When I start running girls, we can auction off the virgins to the highest bidder. Make a ton of money.”  

Albert smiled in a gentlemanly fashion. “If you would have been with me these last couple of years, these current problems would never have developed. Men with your insight and your understanding come along very rarely. You’re gonna be my...”  

Another heavy rapping interrupted Moffit. He put his index finger to his lips, sealing the shared secrets. Albert went to the office door and admitted Ricardo Morales and his wheelman. Ricardo strutted in, but remained standing until Albert indicated a seat. As Ricardo sat, he noticed a proud, accomplished aura about Sparne. Things must have gone well, he thought. Good. The quicker this thing panned out, the quicker he could move his mother. He noticed his driver remained standing. Smart move. Proper respect for all three of them.  

Ricardo tilted his head in salutation. “Mr. Moffit, Richard. Everyone looks happy. The bastards must have gotten the message.”  

Moffit’s pleasant mien turned sour. He had not only picked up the train of thought engineered by the Kid, he was ready to board it. “Unfortunately the scum bags aren’t real smart. I received only three calls. I should have had twenty five. We’d better teach another lesson.” Albert extended his arms outward, for effect. Then he continued. “I’m not a violent man, by nature, I’m a reasonable man.” He raised his voice, almost yelling, and slammed his hand on the desk. “But order must be restored.” In a quieter tone, he said, “Hopefully, this will be the last example.”  

As the “Don” rose from his desk and went to one of his drab, grey filing cabinets, Ricardo and Richard exchanged knowing, powerful glances. The standing driver maintained an emotionless stare. Ricardo had instructed him on the finer points of gangland etiquette during the drive to Moffit’s house.  

Moffit picked a filing cabinet and drawer at random. The outrageous fortune of haphazard selection meant nothing to him.  He pulled the drawer open, and folded, beige, worn files smiled at him. Without looking at the names or companies printed on the overlap, he selected one from about two thirds of the way back. He sat and examined the contents.  

By chance, the file contained taprooms, VFW’s, and American Legions that he had contacted, sometime in the past, for the installation of poker machines. Some had taken the colorful bandits, some not. A printed sheet in the file contained the name, owner, address, and phone number of eleven establishments.  

Albert took a three by five, lined white card from his creaking desk and copied the last name and address on the list. “Zola’s Boulevard Tap.” The lethal blacklisting complete, he directed his attention to the boys stationed in front of his desk.  

“This fucking guy is one of the worst. He hasn’t paid for five months. We allow him to do whatever he wants. Girls. Book. Drugs. Guns. Walk into his place and you can buy or bet whatever your little fucking heart desires. All he has to do is pay tribute. I thought that last thing would get his attention. I thought he would call or show up. But nothing.”  

As Moffit was speaking, he held the index card between thumb and forefinger, tapping it against the top of his desk, in rhythmic monotony. He couldn’t think of anything else to say though. Albert stopped moving the card and remained silent for a few more seconds. He then raised his arm and extended the name to his audience.  

Richard Sparne, being the most experienced man in the room, took the card. The Kid read the information and nodded his head in smug understanding. As he slid it into his back jeans pocket, he asked, “How do you want him done?”  

Albert leaned into his battered office chair. The short, shrill scream of wood and iron parts chafing against each other riveted the boys’ attention. He spoke with venom. “Everyone knows Zola’s. We have to make it obvious. We have to make it sensational. I want every fucker out there to sit up and say, ‘If this can happen to Zola, it can happen to me.’ I want the message to be loud and clear.”  

Ricardo felt a need to contribute at the planning stage. “If we go in and take this Zola guy out, we’ll have to do everyone in the place. Unless we don’t care about witnesses.”  

Moffit glared. “Of course, we don’t care about witnesses. Every cop and District Attorney is on our payroll. They know what’s going on. They aren’t gonna do anything. But that doesn’t make any difference.” Albert paused, stared at his boys and continued. “If anybody is in the place, they are buying our drugs or fucking our girls.  If they are stupid enough to buy from some guy stiffing us, they should fucking die, too.”  

Morales sank back in his chair, blood boiling. He hadn’t meant to appear weak. He was only looking for clarification. Ricardo stood and pleaded his case. “I just wanted to make sure we understood your orders completely. No one will leave the place alive, Mr. Moffit.”  

Albert softened his stare. He gestured for Morales to sit. “I admire your desire to do things correctly, Ricardo. Make sure everyone understands, just as you do.” 

Morales regained his composure and realized that with the exception of Mr. Moffit, he was the “Brains” of the group.  

Sparne pulled his chair forward, scraping the legs against the floor. Having snatched the attention, he said, “Tell us how you want it done.”  

“Do it tomorrow night,” Moffit said. “Walk into the place late, between eleven and midnight.” He thought for a few seconds, then asked, “Do you have shotguns?”  

The Kid responded, “My dad has a couple. I can sneak ‘em out. He has a drawer full of shells, too.  I can get some. He’ll never miss ‘em.”  

“Good. I have an old shotgun you can use, too.”  

Moffit stopped speaking and leaned forward. “Three or four of you walk in.” Albert pointed at Ricardo and Richard. “Make sure the two of you are there.” He returned his pointing finger to the desk. “Walk in with shotguns at your side. Don’t say a word. Blow everybody away. Make sure everybody is dead. Walk out. Bring me my shotgun and go home. If you pick up blood, clean up first, come here, then go home.”  

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Richard said. “If that doesn’t get everyone’s attention, nothing will.”  

Albert continued the thought, “Once we have their attention, you two will move up quickly. Do this thing right tomorrow night, and you’re one step closer.”  

Moffit sensed that he had reached a peak with the boys. He rose from his desk, left the office, and went through the house to get the shotgun from the closet in his bedroom. Ricardo and Richard were talking between themselves, heads bobbing up and down, in exaggerated fashion, exchanging comments on their impending importance.  

As Albert walked through the front room, he heard someone say, “And I have sinned before, but now I...” He tuned out the end of the pitch. His wife hadn’t moved. She still sat rigidly at one corner of the couch, and did not acknowledge his passage.  

He went to the bedroom closet, found the shotgun leaning against the corner of a back wall. It was in a khaki green case. He removed the case, worked the pump action a few times and started back to the office. Since his wife was not reacting to his presence, he didn’t try to hide the weapon. It worked out okay. She didn’t budge. As he glanced at her, he spied the same baby blue eyed minister he had seen earlier. He continued his journey without stopping to listen.  

Back in the office, Moffit handed the shotgun to Richard.  “Have you ever fired one of these?” he asked. Sparne said he had. “Well, make sure everyone knows how to use them,” Moffit ordered. The Kid said he would.  

Ricardo approached Moffit and said, “Can I ask you something?”  

Albert placed his hand on the boy’s shoulder and said, “Of course. What do you need?”  

“Tomorrow, I have to meet with some fucking lawyer about something. He doesn’t understand my position with you. He doesn’t know how you can fix my case. He’s starting to become pushy with me. Will it create a problem if I tell him to leave me the fuck alone? Without mentioning names.”  

Moffit responded, “That is not a problem, Ricardo. Once we have things back to normal, let me know the name of the judge. I will call him and have it disposed of.”  

A wide smile enveloped Ricardo’s face. His attitude had been correct the whole time. Since he met this man, anyway. Ricardo almost bowed, then said, “Thank you, Mr.  Moffit.”  

“Think nothing of it. We take care of our people.”  

Everyone left. Albert locked up the office and decided to retire. Get a good night’s sleep for a change. As he passed behind his wife, a preacher he didn’t recognize was speaking in the same sing-song, unrecognizable language. About half way through the room, Moffit stopped dead in his tracks. He suddenly understood what was being said.