Chocolate Chocolate Moons Read online

  “There,” Jersey says, standing back and admiring her closet. “Perfect. Now I’ll do yours.”

  Trenton blocks his closet door. “No need to get carried away. You know, I wasn’t happy with the police lab results. This morning I received samples Lamont got from Rocket’s room. The new features I put on my tracers refined their analysis. Guess whose biometrics popped up on my screen?”

  “Whose?”

  “Breezy Point’s, Decibel Point’s, and Craig Cashew’s. We may never know why they were in Rocket’s room when he died. All of them may have had a motive to kill Rocket, but I think none of them did it.”

  “Really?” Jersey says wide eyed.

  “According to recent hospital records, Rocket’s body was on the edge of collapse from self-medicating with health foods and supplements. He was hospitalized earlier and a doctor prescribed a medication that would reduce the effects of all his self-medication, but he must have never filled the prescription because the coroner found none. The coroner also said his system was so fragile that the day he died even a baby aspirin might do him in. The culprit seems to be an enriched health food tea that he may have ordered from room service earlier; harmless to most but dangerous when it interacts with other substances.

  “He probably died when Breezy, Decibel, and Craig were in his room and it was just an unfortunate coincidence that they were there at that time. I don’t know the reason they were with Rocket, but Lamont needs to pick them up and question them.”

  Lamont Blackberry walks across his office and inserts two fingers into a vending machine sent by a criminal who thought the police should get their just desserts. Two raspberry cream puffs appear on the tray. Then he calls Trenton.

  “It will be easy to pick up Craig,” Lamont says. “He’s back at the Culinary. And my guess is Breezy is back with Pluto in New Chicago. But Decibel Point’s DNA isn’t registering on any list from any planet or moon.” Lamont keys a few words, including Rose’s Heaven and Rose’s Spa. “Got it,” he says. “Decibel is at that fat farm satellite. The only one that I know that would fit right in there would be Molly. We have to talk her into going and finding him.”

  Sid Seedless interrupts. “I’m getting an unusual transmission.”

  “Trenton, are you on the line? Sid is getting an unusual transmission.”

  “Still here.”

  “Make sure you record the conversation, Sid,” Lamont says.

  “Hello. Is this Drew Barron?” a nervous voice asks.

  “Who wants to know?”

  “Are you the Drew Barron who knew the late Rocket Packarod?”

  “Don’t want any. Gave at the office.” Drew is ready to hang up.

  “My name is Roger Orbit. I’m the director of Far Horizons, the community where Rocket Packarod’s son, Zeus Packarod, lives.”

  Drew listens.

  “I’m holding a copy of Rocket’s will. His lawyer says that he updated it after he was hospitalized following the Mars Malt celebration. He named you executor.”

  “Executor? That’s a surprise. I never knew Rocket had a son until one night at Nirgal Palace when I learned about him from someone else.”

  “Rocket’s left everything to his son, Zeus, in care of Far Horizons,” says Roger, fingering a key. “But everything is stored at the Ali Baba Caves. Would you come with me and help me sort through Rocket’s things?”

  Drew thinks fast. “Scheherazade runs Ali Baba Caves. I met her at Gramercy Gardens when Rocket brought her to dinner. A lot of people have had trouble retrieving things, even with a key. Scheherazade expects a hefty surcharge to retrieve. I’m told if you ask to see Ali Baba, she puts you in a dark room and you watch someone who looks like the Wizard of Oz give a sales pitch about the place, but I’m told it’s her in drag.”

  “So, is that a yes or a no?”

  Suddenly Drew realizes that he could bring the Giacometti that Rocket switched with him and if he sees another one at the ABC he could try to trade them. Finally he says, “Yes, I’ll go.”

  Trenton asks Lamont, “Did you record that conversation?”

  “Sid, did you record it?” Lamont asks.

  “Record it? Let me check.”

  “What do you mean, let me check?”

  “Got it. The light on the right blinking.”

  “It’s supposed to be the light on the left.”

  “Did I say right? I meant left—I was looking in a mirror. Sorry.”

  “Why do you put up with him?” Trenton asks.

  Lamont sighs. “He’s family.”

  The next day, Lamont calls Sid into his office. “I’m assigning you to follow Drew Barron and Roger Orbit to the ABC.”

  “Follow them? Why me?”

  “Because I said so, that’s why.”

  “But everyone knows they won’t let you in unless you pass some kind of test. What if I fail and end up in a dungeon?”

  “Too late. Got you a ticket.”

  34

  DREW AND ROGER stand in front of the ABC. Drew carries a black case that contains the Giacometti that Rocket switched with him. Roger wears a backpack jammed with documentation about Rocket’s request. Two large guards wearing brown uniforms that say “Knight 507” and “Knight 509” are at the entrance. They are seven feet tall, have Mohawk haircuts, necks as thick as bears and crack rubber whips. They are not in a good mood.

  Drew and Roger enter an elevator that descends into a dark hallway. Ahead is a high door with a picture of a mushroom cloud and the words “Testing Area.” 509 opens a creaking door and points to a table with pliers, nails, small sharp objects and a jar that looks like it is filled with blood.

  “Sit!” shouts 507, shoving two chairs in their direction. They sit.

  “Could I have a glass of water?” Drew asks.

  509 cracks his whip and tells 507 to bring some water. “Don’t spill it!” he shouts. “The last guy shook so much, his cup runneth over.” He cracks his whip again. “Get my drift?”

  “Do you have to shout?” Drew says. “There are only four of us here.”

  “You the voice of authority? Shaddup!”

  Roger bunches a handkerchief and mentally says the words to “My Sweet Lord.”

  “We have to ask you a few questions to make sure you are who you say you are. We want to be fair,” 507 says.

  Roger and Drew look at each other, knowing that whenever anyone makes a big deal out of saying how they want to be fair, you know you’re headed for big trouble.

  “I’ll ask the questions,” 509 says, “because I went to John Gotti Community College and you didn’t.”

  Then he makes a sound like a volcano springing to life. “Does vitamin A make you smarter than vitamin B? How many Napoleons did Napoleon eat before he drank water from the loo? Are synonyms found in a thesaurus or a brontosaurus? What (if any) is the difference between a hamlet and omelet with ham? Where are the shores of Gitchie Goomie?”

  They wait nervously while 507 tally their scores. “Not bad,” he says. “You both passed.” He turns to Roger. “How did you know where Gitchie Goomie was? Not even Scheherazade knows.”

  “My mother’s family came from there. It’s not too far from the big sea waters.”

  “You don’t say.”

  Then 509 covers their eyes and puts earphones on their ears that play a continuous loop of the Weavers singing “Wimoweh” and marches them through winding halls smelling of burning flesh, down long passages that drip warm liquids on their heads amid sounds of a trapdoor opening and something falling into an abyss nearby. At last they reach Scheherazade’s outer office and the earphones and eye coverings are pulled off.

  Drew rubs his ears.

  “No rubbing,” 507 says. “It excites some of the guys who have been here a long time.”

  “Sit here,” 509 says.

  “No, there,” 507 says.

  “Here.”

  “There.”

  “Here.”

  “There.”

  “Stop arguing
with me,” 509 says. “You people from Minsk always like to argue.” His face contorts into a twisted leer.

  “Pinsk. I’m from Pinsk, Pluto.”

  “Minsk on Mercury, Pinsk on Pluto. Same thing. Whatever.”

  “But there’s only one stool,” Drew says.

  “Shut up, wise guy! You can stand.” 509 yanks the stool away and points to Roger. “And you can sit on the floor.”

  After a while, Drew walks to the wall to his left. It is lined with portraits. “It’s the Thieves family,” he says, counting. “Yup, there are forty, all right.” He turns to the opposite wall and sees a framed award. He reads: “To Scheherazade, the Seven Deadly Sins award: gluttony, anger, pride, greed, lust, envy, and sloth for all your help founding a charter school for scoundrels.” Drew says, “Boy, those Thieves really know how to raise funds.”

  509 approaches and escorts them into Scheherazade’s office. Drew recalls the time Rocket brought Scheherazade to the Gramercy Gardens and he and Scheherazade sat at the same table. He wonders if she will remember.

  They enter a dark room with three low-hanging lights over Scheherazade’s desk. Her red dress clings to her body like wet dry cleaning. Her long black hair, smooth as seal’s pelt, falls down her back. Every finger has a ring. Drew thinks: brass knuckles.

  Scheherazade stands behind an elaborately carved ivory-colored desk talking on her palm. There is a Giacometti identical to Drew’s on her desk. She motions to a green leather sofa against the opposite wall.

  “Be with you in a moment,” she growls, obviously annoyed with the person on the other end. She turns her back to Roger and Drew, who hears, “No, off with your head is not a figure of speech! When was it ever a figure of speech?” She clicks off and says, “Idiot!”

  She motions for Drew and Roger to come closer. “You guys looking for a job? I’m looking to hire another knight, because now I have a thousand, and I need one more as a tiebreaker when their union votes.” She sits down at her desk, pushes her hair behind her ears, and leans forward on her elbows, revealing a deep cleavage.

  Roger and Drew try not to look at her cleavage. Drew notices she wears a blue-ice sapphire necklace identical to the one he bought for Kandy.

  “What a beautiful necklace,” Drew says.

  She fingers the necklace and gives it a long, sensuous touch. “Got it on the home shopping channel. So you guys want jobs?”

  “We’re not looking for a job,” Roger stammers. “A friend of ours has died and he has storage here. I brought his will and a key to his vault.” He takes off his backpack, unzips it, and fumbles for the key.

  “And who might that be?” Scheherazade says, drumming her nails on her desk.

  “Rocket Packarod.”

  “Rocket Packarod!” Scheherazade throws her head back and laughs. “Neither of you look like a friend of Rocket’s. I’m gonna miss those free supplements and drugs.”

  She points to the Giacometti on her desk. “I got that from Rocket. Told me it was real but I haven’t checked. Could be a first edition from my art factory. Even I can’t tell if it’s mine or a real one unless I put it through elaborate tests.” She turns to a silver screen on her desk and touches several points with a long red fingernail. “Ah, Rocket’s storage is in an area called the Waldorf Asteroid, section five, cave four. Let me stamp your hands.” She takes out her stamp and inks it up, grabs Drew’s hand, and pushes the stamp into the back of it. “This is good for a one-day pass. No exchanges. No refunds. Just hold it under the little light at the door and my knights will let you in.”

  “Ouch,” Drew says, rubbing his hand. “That hurt. Did you have to be so rough?”

  “That’s nothing compared to what you’ll feel if you don’t give Ali Baba Caves a token of appreciation when you’ve finished going through Rocket’s vault.”

  Drew works up his courage and says, “I wonder if you remember me? We met at Gramercy Gardens. You came with Rocket. I was on the other side of the table with Kandy.”

  Scheherazade’s lip curls but she says nothing.

  507 and 509 stand in front of the Waldorf Asteroid section, each holding back a growling pit bull ready to pounce.

  “Down, Rimsky,” 507 says. Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out a piece of raw tofu in the shape of a man’s hand. He throws it to Rimsky, who retreats.

  “Down, Korsakov,” 509 says, throwing him a piece of raw tofu in the shape of a man’s foot. Korsakov retreats.

  507 scans their hands and gives each a shove toward a long, dark, misty hallway.

  “I can hardly see,” Drew says with grim apprehension. “Does it have to be so misty?”

  “We just got the mist machine. No one was afraid without mist.”

  Drew and Roger walk through the haze in silence until 507 finally shouts, “Stop here!”

  Roger inserts the key into a rusty door and turns the lock. A bolt slides.

  Drew hands 507 twenty-five starbucks. When he makes menacing sounds and his face remains twisted in a bad way, Drew hands him a hundred. 507 walks away mumbling to himself.

  The storage cave glows with amber darkness. One bulb hangs on a thin twisted wire. Drew pushes through cobwebs and sneezes. “Why am I not surprised it looks like this?”

  They start at the front and pick through Rocket’s things. There are ten pairs of eyes signed Picasso, six sets of dentures signed Matisse, twenty individual ears signed Van Gough, a photograph of Jeff Koons shooting a loon on a moon, eight identical Giacomettis, three Venuses from Willendorff’s cafeteria, a box containing cash and a portrait of Kermit the Frog with Miss Piggy, which Roger identifies because he says he saw a copy on a wall in a mart.

  On a dark shelf in the back is a scrapbook with pictures of a young Rocket and a woman holding a baby. “I’ll take this with me,” Roger says.

  Drew and Roger lock the storage cave and make arrangements for its contents to be shipped to Far Horizons with the exception of the cash, which they take with them.

  “A token of our appreciation,” Drew says handing Scheherazade thirty thousand starbucks.

  “And a portrait of Miss Piggy and Kermit,” Roger adds.

  “Wasn’t she the first female president of the United States?” Scheherazade asks.

  “I’m not sure,” says Drew. “But Kermit was definitely a prime minister.”

  “Thanks for letting us stop by,” Roger says backing toward the door.

  Scheherazade waves her hand. “You can go.”

  Drew starts to retreat. She points to him. “You stay.”

  Sid calls Lamont. “You shouldn’t have sent me. I told you I couldn’t get in. I told you I would fail their test.”

  “What was the question?” Lamont asks.

  “To be or not to be?”

  “What did you check?”

  “I checked ‘not to be.’”

  “You never check that. Everyone knows that.”

  Sid groans.

  “What’s the matter now? Where are you?”

  “Two guys with rubber whips and bushy eyebrows just put me on a tram back to New Chicago with a tattoo on my butt that says ‘Rejected: Return to Sender.’”

  35

  CORTLAND LANDS A spot on Katie Racket Interviews to promote the Lunar Tunes and Molawn, his music agency. The twins and I watch and cheer from home. Katie Racket tells Cortland how lucky the twins are to have him as a father and after the show gives him her private number, in case, over a bottle of wine, he wants to show her how one becomes a father.

  He gets so much publicity from being on her show that he decides the best way for the twins to get more exposure and find more talent is to go on tour. Billings begs him not to leave, because he’s feeling a pinch from his competition, the Original Ray’s Red Planet Pizza. So before he leaves, Cortland blitzes the media with ads that say eating a Green Men pizza helps the greening of Mars. Ecology buffs rejoice. Sales soar. Billings is happy, but Cortland’s pizza days are over.

  Lamont calls. “Molly, how would you li
ke an all-expenses-paid vacation to Rose’s Heaven?”

  “Rose’s Heaven! When I went to Ruby’s Spa, someone told me that it was the spa in space for the plus-size.”

  “That’s right. Decibel Point is there. I hope you don’t take offense, but you are the only one I know who would fit right in with their clientele. Would you go and find him and keep him busy until we arrive?”

  This is a no-brainer. Ever since I learned about Rose’s Heaven and its never-ending buffet, I’ve been dying to go. “The Culinary owes me time off because I put in extra hours when Gramercy Gardens opened. When do I leave?”

  I arrive at Rose’s docking station. It’s been a long while since I floated in space. Ah, the bearable lightness of being. Lovely music plays. An announcer says it is the “Moonlight Sonata.”

  “Which moon do you think the composer had in mind?” asks a woman dredging the last drops of her first piña colada.

  “Probably all of them,” I say.

  A sign says, “Welcome to Rose’s, where no one asks how much you lost but asks how much you’ve gained.” Three attendants greet me. One wears a smock that says “Rose’s Angels Regular” and another wears a smock that says “Rose’s Angels Deluxe.” The third woman wears a smock that says “Rose’s Angels Rehabilitation.”

  “What’s the difference?” I ask.

  “Rose’s Angels Regular is for people who weigh less than five hundred Earth pounds. Rose’s Angels Deluxe is for those over five hundred Earth pounds. And Rose’s Angels Rehabilitation is for anyone who wants to reverse the genetics that took away their sense of taste.”

  “I didn’t know you could do that.”

  “Only a few know about it, but it’s our fastest growing area. Most of the people who come here haven’t tasted anything fully since infancy, when taste suppressants were put into their food. We have to wean them off very slowly or they’ll go into shock.

  “We wake up their taste buds by having them eat small portions of something strong—things like hot Mexican chili peppers and fiery Madres curries. When they can taste that we move on to something milder. In the end they can taste egg whites. While they are here we also make it impossible for them to turn off the cooking channel. Tell me now; will you be signing up for Rose’s Regular or Rose’s Deluxe?”