Chocolate Chocolate Moons Page 12

  Rocket winks at Craig. “Remember Scheherazade?”

  Craig gives an icy stare.

  “After all these years, she’s still one of my best friends.”

  Craig says nothing.

  Rocket adds, “Maybe you’ve all heard of the ABC, her underground storage facility and art workshop.”

  No one responds.

  “The ABC, Ali Baba Caves,” Rocket repeats louder. She sold me a copy of Andy Warhol’s Dollar Sign and a copy of his Electric Chair. They spoke right to my soul.”

  Good observation, CC thinks. Whoever Scheherazade is, she sure read Rocket right.

  “And what do you do, Rocket?” she asks.

  Rocket crunches a few walnuts. “I’m a wholesale pharmacist.” He reaches into his pocket hands her a card and winks. “Good prices. No questions asked.”

  “Did you hear that, Cortland?” I say, sipping my Kir Royal. “Rocket and Craig Cashew know Scheherazade. I bet Drew knows a lot more than he’s letting on.”

  Cortland signals the waiter. “We’ll have a tray of what you just brought to the next table.”

  “Shrimp wontons. Our most expensive appetizer. Are you sure that’s what you want? We have a lovely low fat dip.”

  “That’s what we want,” says Cortland, calculating the waiter’s tip downward.

  We clink glasses. Cortland says, “Happy anniversary, sweetheart.” I blow him a kiss.

  “What are they doing now, Cortland? I don’t want to turn around.”

  “I see Rocket fingering all the nuts in the dish. Now he’s passing them around.”

  We hear Rocket boom. “Any takers?”

  Suddenly the dish slips from Rocket’s hand and crashes to the table. The round filberts move with electron velocity into the air. Two land in Craig’s drink, two land in Drew’s hair, three hit Rocket in the forehead and bounce back to the table and leap toward CC, who raises her hand and swats them away, where they fly over my head and nestle between my breasts like little eggs.

  I try to decide if I should leave the nuts alone, pluck them out, or cover them with a napkin. But then they slide lower and drop out of sight.

  Rocket rises and looks down at me. “Good catch, sweetheart.”

  I lower my head. “Excuse me.” I head for the ladies’ room.

  CC glares at Rocket. She gets up and follows me.

  “Didn’t everyone think that was a good catch?” Rocket says. “Hey, fella,” he calls to Cortland. “Would you like to join us when the girls come back from the ladies’ room?”

  “No thanks,” Cortland answers.

  I push the door to the ladies’ room open. CC is behind me. I hold it for her and she passes.

  She turns and looks at me. “You know, you look very familiar. Have we met?”

  “No, I don’t think so. I look like a lot of people.”

  “Actually, you don’t. Most people are not as heavy as you. Everyone takes supplements and is much thinner. Did you ever live on Earth’s moon?”

  “Briefly. Very briefly,” I say, closing a stall door behind me.

  “Well, I never forget a face. I’m sure it will come to me.”

  CC washes her hands, freshens her makeup, and leaves.

  I open the stall door, wash my hands, and peer into the mirror. CC has left her towel on the side of the sink. I take it and jam it into my pocketbook. I saw on the news that she toured Congress Drugs a week before all the trouble at the Candy Universe started—maybe there’s a connection. Trenton can scan her biometrics from her towel when I get home.

  I walk back to the table. CC waves at me. “I know I know you,” she says in a singsong voice. “Sooner or later I know I’m going to remember.”

  Drew is so busy talking nonstop about Chelsea Clinton, the latest hot artist area in New Chicago, that he doesn’t look up.

  Rocket, on the other hand, can’t resist looking and asking, “Get them out, baby?”

  “Let’s go,” I say to Cortland.

  Later, in their room, Craig says to CC, “Rocket and I were just brief acquaintances in college. He was always a character. Drew’s more interesting than I first thought. Amazing you knew him at Armstrong U. I really would love to visit him and see the Giacometti.”

  “What did you think of Kandy?” asks CC. She watches Craig’s reflection in a large mirror. His eyes glow.

  After a moment, Craig turns and faces CC, whose face twists downward. “What?” he says. And as though she didn’t hear, repeats louder. “What? Did I say something wrong?”

  CC’s brow wrinkles. “No, nothing, but…” She points to the floating bed. “Tonight we’re moving the bed.”

  24

  SANDY ANDREAS WEARS a tie the color of dried blood. It fits his mood. Every day he gets reports that off-planet unregulated labs, like Titan Drugs are planning to make generic versions of his products that will undercut him. Titan Labs and Rocket Packarod’s name appear in the same sentence so many times that he doesn’t have to draw lines to connect the dots.

  Sandy pounds a table and shouts at Drew. “I thought you said that all the tests on our products were successful! I’m still getting cancellations! Sales are flat!”

  Drew sweats and swallows. “But Congress Drugs did hundreds of blind tests.”

  “Blind is the right word. I want answers. And I want answers NOW!”

  Drew drags himself home and plops into his favorite chair, his back aching. He stays there a long time. Then he moves to his bed and stays there an even longer time. Eventually he gets up and goes back to the chair. If it weren’t for his daily dose of nutritional supplements and reliance on Freedom Plan foods that reduce his caloric cravings, he would binge-drink eggnog.

  Kandy peers into a mirror; one hair is out of place. Another day ruined. “You know, Drew,” she pouts, “you’re always in a bad mood. You work so hard with pills that you’re becoming one. Why don’t we invite Craig Cashew and CC here to see that Jackie O sculpture? Craig said he’d love to see it.”

  “Giacometti. There’s a big difference.”

  “Whatever. Just stop being so grouchy! It’s bad for my complexion.”

  A month later the market rallies. Drew’s bad mood lifts.

  “Hey, Kandy, I have an idea. Let’s invite Craig and CC here for dinner.”

  “That was my idea!”

  “Well it’s mine now.”

  “Phone call for you on line three, Mr. Cashew,” secretary Vanilla Extract says. “Name’s Rocket Packarod. He’s not on any list. Do you want to take the call?”

  Craig’s stomach, which never rumbles, rumbles. “Now that Gramercy Gardens has opened, everyone wants a membership.” He sighs. “Put him through, visual off.”

  Craig takes a deep breath. “Hello, Rocket. What can I do for you?”

  “Well, that was direct. No ‘How are you?’? No ‘Great to see you at Nirgal Palace’? No ‘Thanks for the drinks and their best hors d’oeuvres’?”

  “So what can I do for you?’ Craig repeats in a monotone.

  “I thought since I’m your old friend, you would personally invite me to join Gramercy Gardens.”

  “We were the briefest of college acquaintances,” Craig corrects. “Hardly ‘old friends.’ Besides, it’s not just up to me, Rocket. There’s a committee.”

  “Yeah, yeah, there’s always a committee. Everyone knows that. But you’re the Culinary’s CEO.” Craig says nothing.

  “By the way, if you’re still sore that Drew owns that Giacometti sculpture, I can get one wholesale.”

  “I’m no longer interested in the Giacometti, Rocket. It’s probably a fake, anyway.”

  “It may be a fake, but it’s a real fake. Scheherazade makes such good copies that some trade at higher prices than the original. She told me that she got high-priced lawyers who specialize in art tampering to lobby governments to expand the definition of art forgery by weaving the words artistic and autistic in a manner so obscure that no one can broach the subject without getting an expensive psychologica
l evaluation from one of the art therapy clinics. She also pays plenty to keep the filibuster of ‘Is a copy of a copy of a copy still a copy?’ going strong in Congress. Some congressmen said they liked the argument so much that they would give her a discount.

  Craig still says nothing.

  “Look, old buddy, it would mean a lot to me to join Gramercy Gardens. I’m not getting younger. Time to upgrade the quality of my life. Time to hang with a better crowd.” Rocket pauses to gauge Craig’s reaction. “Bet you don’t think I know the difference between a fish knife, a steak knife, and getting knifed.”

  Suddenly Craig jumps. “What was that? Was that the sound of a gun?”

  “Gun? No, gum. I was just cracking some multivitamin, multimineral gum. You should sell stuff like that at your Flying Saucer Supermarket. I’ll get you the best price. Wanna think about it?”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “That’s the spirit. Now, I don’t want to pull my last ace, but I gotta tell ya, I have a holo of the transaction you helped Scheherazade and me with when you transferred those glass beads off-planet back when we were college pals.”

  Craig winces.

  “Don’t worry; I won’t chew any gum at Gramercy Gardens. I wouldn’t crack, crack want to crack, crack embarrass such a good old friend. Let bygones be bygones; how about I send you a complimentary case of the gum to show my goodwill. Loosen up, classmate. Live long and prosper.”

  CC and Craig are delighted by Drew’s invitation to come to his apartment for dinner and see the Giacometti.

  Craig arrives first; CC follows a few moments later. Drew shakes Craig’s hand. CC gets an air-kiss. A hired waiter offers them a Plum Royal: prosecco with a dash of Jovian plum liqueur.

  “A house specialty,” Drew says. They clink glasses.

  “You’ve done so well at Congress Drugs,” CC says. She lowers her eyes and sips. “Sandy Andreas must be a tough guy to work for. When I toured the farms and Congress Drugs, I saw how everyone jumped when he entered.”

  Drew gives her a long look. “We get along.” He turns to Craig, relieved not to talk any more about Sandy. “You’ve come a long way to see the Giacometti. Well, there it is.”

  They walk to the gray marble table that the sculpture stands on. Craig peers closely. “As I said at Nirgal Palace, lots of fakes on the market. Have you had this independently appraised?”

  “Not yet,” Drew lies. “No time.” He takes a ginger-infused lobster roll from a passing tray. Kandy, who has just finished dressing, joins them. Drew gives an approving look at her green jersey dress with a slashed neckline, pecks her cheek, and drapes his arm around her.

  Then a bell rings and they all turn toward the sound. A hired chef in a white coat and high hat opens frosted-glass doors that lead to a low-lighted dining room. He gestures toward the room.

  Everyone enters. Craig walks to three all-white paintings surrounded by soft neon frames that hang on the back wall. “What’s this triptych called?”

  “Portraits of the Elusive.”

  “Elusive of what?”

  “A continuing process of self-definition.”

  Craig studies them closely. “I see a lot of veiled aggression. I think I would understand them better in black.”

  “They look like three white squares to me,” Kandy says. “But I like the frames.”

  The table is set for four. Craig faces Kandy. Drew faces CC. A low row of cream-colored candles runs down the middle.

  They dig their forks into a salad of frisée, goat cheese with a small sliced pickled peach, and crystallized wasabi horseradish that makes a sweet heat. This is followed by a rack of lamb with a brandy mint sauce that was aged in kegs floating within the rings of Saturn. The conversation is all small talk until Kandy pushes her hair behind one ear, exposing a blue-ice sapphire earring, looks at Craig, and says, “I hope the food at Gramercy Gardens is as good as this. Drew’s membership was just approved.”

  Craig looks at everyone. He doesn’t answer Kandy’s question. He puts down his knife and fork and says, “Rocket called me. He wants to join Gramercy Gardens. I’ve told him it is a committee decision.”

  There is silence. A waiter clears the main course and places balls of espresso gelato before them. The center is filled with hot fudge spiked with Kahlua and cinnamon. They wait for the waiter to leave the room. Then Craig looks at Drew. “If you brought him as your guest, it would take some pressure off me. I’m not sure how some of my board members would react if he came as my guest.”

  Drew bristles but keeps his face neutral. He remembers that Rocket still has his Giacometti. He pokes at the gelato until the hot fudge seeps from the center and pools around it.

  “I need the favor, and I won’t forget it.” Craig presses.

  Drew wonders what Rocket could possibly have on Craig.

  “Sure, Craig,” he nods, hoping he won’t regret it.

  25

  HEADS TURN. JAWS drop. Scheherazade stands next to Rocket and enters Gramercy Gardens. She is a tall woman with dark eyes and straight black hair that falls down her back and stops at her buttocks. Her black dress has more cutouts than fabric. Kandy Kane glowing on Drew’s arm in a white body-skimming cashmere-and-silk gown that has the feeling of intimate lingerie enters next.

  Sandy Andreas, up front with friends in a corner banquette, sees them and chokes.

  Craig Cashew, the evening’s host in a perfect white dinner jacket, rushes to his side. Sandy brushes him away, drinks some water, and stops coughing.

  Craig accompanies Rocket and Scheherazade to their seats. Scheherazade saunters behind Rocket and slides into the chair Craig pulls out for her.

  Drew and Kandy linger at Sandy’s table. They avoid Sandy’s eyes and air-kiss Solaria. When they look up, they see CC enter wearing a short red number.

  CC spots Drew and Kandy at Sandy’s table, waves, and joins them. Sandy makes more throat-clearing sounds. He gets up, air-kisses CC, and says how nice it is to see her again and how much he loved watching her on Nova Scotia’s program.

  Craig returns to Sandy’s table, whisks them away, and seats them with Rocket and Scheherazade. Craig notices that Rocket has bags under his eyes and looks exhausted.

  Everyone is excited to be at Gramercy Gardens because Gourmet Galaxy’s food critic, Alka Seltzer, reported that its polished sandstone walls, tiled floor, and stained glass ceiling are the perfect backdrop for wonderful dishes such as wild Martian buffalo stuffed with foie gras and mushrooms.

  Sandy turns to those at his table. He has two big things to celebrate. The first is his success in getting a solar clock passed in the United Planetary Council. When there were so many worlds that had days of more than twenty-four hours and just as many that had days of less than twenty-four, the question What time is it? had been the number one question. Now, thanks to a solar clock, that debate is finally off the “Easy to Ask, Hard to Answer” list, making the new number one question (tested on senior citizens) How are you?

  The other accomplishment: standardized currencies. Mars used the solar, Earth used the neuro, Venus used shillings, Mercury used pounds, and so it went. Sandy proposed the starbuck because it was the only currency that made cents. His table celebrated with more champagne, more clinking glasses, and louder laughter.

  Jersey and I are at Gramercy Gardens because they need extra staff. We stand in a corner of the kitchen and watch chefs turn food into art.

  “I don’t know why the head waiter is letting you serve, Jersey, while I only get to refresh flowers and fill salt shakers. I got fitted for an eye cam, so I can take photos.”

  “They said it was because I fit into the uniform and you don’t.”

  I say nothing, but I know she’s right.

  “Why do you think they serve such tiny portions on such huge plates? You need reading glasses to eat.”

  “Tiny? They don’t look tiny to me. It’s called a tasting menu.”

  “How come no one ever says they’re tasting pizza? Either yo
u eat it or you don’t.”

  “It’s about food aesthetics.”

  “No, it’s about economics: skimpy portions, big price tags.”

  Scheherazade eyes Drew. She removes a thin black leather scarf from her neck, pulls it slowly through her fist, and sets it in her lap.

  I watch from a distance as Jersey approaches their table, pours water, and places a bread basket containing bite-size pesto toasts and small cheese biscuits on the table. She lowers the table’s background music, Philip Lip Gloss’s series of repetitive sounds, so they will not interfere with conversation. A bottle of Rock Crystal is placed next to Drew to chill. I click my eye cam to adjust a telephoto lens and take several shots, hoping they will be clear even though I’m so far away.

  Drew says to Scheherazade, “Rocket tells me that you own Ali Baba Caves. I have a large art collection, including a Giacometti sculpture. I might consider storing it with you.”

  Rocket knows Drew’s Giacometti is the fake he gave him and that Drew is just trying to impress Scheherazade. Then Scheherazade pats Rocket’s hand. “You just gave me a Giacometti, didn’t you sweetheart? I put it on my desk.”

  Rocket’s mouth curls upward.

  “I would like to see it,” Drew says, leaning closer to Scheherazade. “We should see how much alike they are.”

  Kandy, not liking the direction of the conversation, asks, “Can I come?”

  Drew, as though awakening from a trance, says, “What?”

  Kandy lowers her eyes.

  CC breaks a pregnant silence. “Carbon Copies Media would love to do a special on you, Scheherazade. Would you consider it?”

  Scheherazade raises her glass to her lips, sips, and puts it down. She wipes her mouth with a crisp white napkin, leaving a dark red smear. “No,” she hisses.

  “Can you hear what they’re saying, Jersey? Do they like the food?”

  “No one mentioned the food. CC asked to interview Scheherazade.”

  “What did she say?”