Chocolate Chocolate Moons Read online

  “I don’t need a review, Pluto. I remember as much as you do.”

  “If we knew that Rocket was going to die, it’s too bad you went to all that trouble on the transport, but as it is, we were lucky your father was on the outs with Rocket and receptive to our ideas. Also, we did get Craig to give us back the remote that had your biometrics. It could have linked you to the time and place of the chocolate poisoning.”

  “What do you mean we were lucky about my father being on the outs with Rocket?” Breezy snaps. “There are a zillion people besides my dad who wouldn’t have minded seeing Rocket on a one-way trip to the Andromeda galaxy.”

  Breezy opens her closet and removes a flashy low-cut yellow-and-black silk crepe de chine outfit that leaves nothing to the imagination.

  “Don’t overdo it, baby. You don’t want to give the wrong impression.”

  “And what impression is that? I didn’t do anything but have a drink with Rocket and walk him back to his room.”

  “Yeah, and he stopped breathing after you and your father poisoned his ivy.”

  “How many times do I have to tell you that never happened?”

  “Just checking to make sure you get your story straight. The police ask the same question over and over, looking for a chink.”

  “For all I know, the bartender slipped something into his Paregoric Sour,” Breezy says, snapping the clasp of her green sling-back peep-toe shoes.

  Breezy is buzzed into Mars Yard. Lamont tells her to sit down; she argues that it will wrinkle her dress. When he insists, she knows he means business and she can’t pull the “guilty till proven innocent” card. She waves to her father, whom she sees sitting behind a glass wall talking to Sid Seedless.

  Decibel Point admits taking a batch of antiflavonoids from Congress Drugs. He says he took it because he invented the anti-flavonoid and feared that without proper testing it might be dangerous. After the Chocolate Moons were poisoned he knew that he was right. A fresh sample was needed to create an antidote. He took the transport to Titan to be away from prying eyes and prying hands.

  “So let me see if I’ve got this straight, Miss Point…” Lamont says.

  “Breezy,” she purrs puckering her lips and leaning forward.

  “Breezy, you’re telling me that Craig Cashew was blackmailing you and your boyfriend with the remote control you dropped at the Candy Universe. But you had no idea what the remote was or what it could do.”

  “That’s right. For all I knew, it was something that could trigger a birthday surprise for that fat security guard, I think her name is Molly, that I saw eating her third box of Chocolate Moons.”

  Lamont makes a note: fat security guard.

  “Who gave it to you?” he asks.

  “I found it. I don’t remember where. I find a lot of things. She opens her bag and pulls out a small blue umbrella. “See this umbrella? Found it on the street.” She pulls out a red lipstick. “See this lipstick? Found it on a tram.”

  “We get your point, Miss Point.” Lamont jots down blue umbrella and red lipstick. “How did Craig Cashew know you had the remote control?”

  “How would I know? Ask him. We only knew that because I handled it, my biometrics were on it, and Pluto and I were at the Candy Universe around the time the Chocolate Moons were poisoned.” She dabs her eyes with a handkerchief feigning a tear. “If I knew innocent fun-loving people like us, scrimping and saving for the only holiday we have had in five years, could be implicated I never would have gone there.”

  “Hmm.” Lamont jots down fun-loving.

  Breezy continues, “After the story about the poisoned Chocolate Moons broke, we realized that anything anyone touched there could be used as evidence, and we wanted to distance ourselves from the event. Craig’s price for giving the remote back to us was to help him convince Rocket to bury an embarrassing incident that happened to him long ago. We knew that Rocket frequently took the transport to Titan. My father wanted to go there so he could develop an antidote to the anti-flavonoid. Craig was on the transport because he’s going to open a Culinary satellite on Titan.”

  “So each of you had a reason to be on the transport and each of you had a reason to see Rocket. That’s very convenient.”

  “Well before we could talk to Rocket, he keeled over in his room in front of us. None of us touched him.” She raises her arm. “Hand to God’s ear or two or three.”

  “God’s ear or two or three?”

  “Well he’s God. Who knows how many ears? Some Hindu Gods have lots of arms. Just playing it safe; I don’t want to offend anyone. I’m not that type of girl.”

  Lamont jots: God, hand, ears. He reviews the notes he’s taken. Then writes: A fun-loving fat security guard who walked down a street and sat on a tram finds a blue umbrella and a red lipstick close to one of God’s ears but far away from some Hindu’s arm. He turns back to Breezy. “Now the death of Rocket Packarod.”

  “Didn’t Rocket die from an overdose of health foods?”

  “That’s what the coroner’s report shows.”

  “So there you go: died of natural-food causes.”

  Breezy takes out the tube of lipstick again and freshens her mouth. She blots it with a tissue and stuffs the tissue into her cleavage so Lamont can see the red smudge. “By the way, how did you know it was us on the transport?”

  Then, as though on cue, Trenton opens a door, walks in, and waves to Breezy. “Oh no!” Breezy says. “I remember you. The junk man from the Purple Tree Lounge. You almost made me spill my drink.”

  Decibel, who finished giving a statement to Sid Seedless, comes in and stands at Breezy’s side. “Do you realize who that is?” he says, looking at Trenton. “He was on the cover of Live and Let Live. He’s the latest android model. Almost human.”

  “I am human,” says Trenton. “Of course, more human future than human past.”

  Breezy frowns. “If that’s the future, I’d rather look like Wilma Flintstone!”

  “You don’t want to look like the Flintstones if everyone else looks like me.” He leans close to Breezy, who immediately turns away. She reaches into her bag for sunglasses that cover half her face.

  Lamont says to Breezy, “We’re going to hold you a bit longer. We have more questions for you and your boyfriend, Pluto Pastrami.” He turns to Decibel. “You can go, but don’t leave the planet.”

  Hearing this, Breezy immediately calls Pluto and tells him that Lamont wants to question him.

  Pluto arrives with Jack McPloy; a lawyer the Pastramis keep on retainer. Lamont shows them holos of Pluto and Breezy at the Candy Universe with Pluto’s hand raised near the chocolate vat.

  “Proves nothing,” Jack says. “Looks like Pluto was waving his hand. And as far as Breezy, Decibel, and Craig’s dealings with Rocket go, nothing happened on the transport except that they saw him collapse.”

  Lamont releases Decibel, Pluto and Breezy until trial dates can be set.

  Drew enters his apartment. The first thing he sees is a flashing message from Kandy. He taps the lock to his carrying case, removes the Giacometti and places it on the marble table. He pours himself a stiff Saturian whiskey and brings it into the bathroom. None of Kandy’s things are there. He gulps the drink; adjusts the shower selecting Niagara force; steps inside; air dries, goes back into the bedroom and lies naked on the bed. “Play messages,” he says.

  Kandy’s voice: “I saw you and Scheherazade on the high society channel. No need to say more. I’m staying with Solaria Andreas till I get my own place. You have the number. I left the blue-ice sapphire necklace on top of your desk. I can’t bear to wear it.”

  Drew tries to sleep, but after turning his pillow over every minute with the hope of finding a cool spot, he gets up and eats four packages of Chocolate Moons. Then he sleeps and dreams that he has regained all his former weight, and a descendent of Fernando Botero, an artist best known for painting everyone fat, does a six-foot portrait of him that everyone laughs at and no one wants to bid on at Park
Bengay. He jerks awake pounding a pillow on his stomach.

  The next day he takes the Giacometti to an appraiser. His stomach twists when the appraiser shakes his head no. Not wanting to burn all his bridges with Scheherazade, he calls her and tells her the results.

  “Why should I trust you?” Scheherazade screams. “I’ll do my own evaluation.” Click!

  The next day, dressed as sheep in wolves’ clothing, 507 and 509 break into Drew’s apartment and take the Giacometti. They’re angry because Scheherazade just hired one more knight to her thousand, making a thousand and one, a tiebreaker in a winner-take-all vote about joining the Knights of Columbus or the Knights of Vasco de Gama. They leave a card: “507 and 509 Locksmiths: Fixed Locks Broken. Same-Day Service.”

  Drew calls Roger Orbit.

  “Great timing,” Roger says. “We’re having a memorial event honoring Rocket. I’ll sit you with the Big Bang Patrons.”

  “No thanks, Roger. I’m just calling to tell you that the Giacomettis were fakes. Other artworks could be too.”

  “I hope they all are.”

  “Why? I would have thought you would be upset. Far Horizons needs the money.”

  “Well, I just learned from our generous new donor that there is a brisk market for copies and an even greater market for copies of copies. Anyone can get numbered signed limited editions because it’s so easy to get them extended. With unlimited editions no one ever knows how many there are. Adds to their mystery, ergo their value. Unlimited Editions stock is soaring.”

  “And who may I ask is this new generous donor who has given you this information?”

  “Scheherazade. She’s going to be our speaker at our next fundraiser. Sorry you’ll miss her keynote address: ‘How to Fool All the People All the Time.’”

  38

  THE NEXT MORNING, a call from Sandy’s secretary wakes Drew. “He wants to see you immediately. Be prepared. He’s having a tantrum that looks like a prelude to a tornado.”

  Sandy sits at his desk with micro phones on each finger, talking to ten people at the same time. It looks like he’s practicing some new kind of musical instrument except that his voice sounds like scratched glass on gravel. As soon as one of his secretaries lets Drew in, Sandy shakes his fingers disconnecting the phones and charges toward him. He motions for him to sit. Drew sits. Sandy peers at him like a scientist examining a deadly virus.

  “The police have been all over me, Drew. They thought I had something to do with the death of that crook Rocket Packarod because we were on the same transport and I walked near his cabin. I didn’t even know he was on the ship. And now Lamont Blackberry wants you to stop by Mars Yard! Any idea what that’s about?”

  Drew shrugs. Sandy gives him his most intimidating stare. Drew looks concerned but says nothing, enraging Sandy more.

  That afternoon Drew stands in the Mars Yard waiting room under a blinking light that maximizes nervousness. It was designed by a group whose level of nervousness was consistently off the charts: mothers waiting to hear if their child got into an exclusive nursery school. Drew blinks and reads a sign that says “Take a number.”

  “Do I have to take number? I’m the only one here,” he says putting his hands in his pockets and tucking his neck into his collar.

  “Yes, you do,” the policeman on duty says.

  Drew pulls off a number. “How come it says ‘Number Two’? No one else is here.”

  “No one likes to go first. Makes people feel better about being interrogated and tortured.”

  “Tortured?”

  “Only kidding. You have nothing to fear but fear itself.”

  “Fear of fear is a lot of fear.”

  Drew sits on a well-worn sofa next to a table with a bowl of fortune cookies, takes one, cracks it, and reads, “Your number is up. You will go on a long journey to a dark place for a long time.” He frowns.

  “Don’t worry,” says the policeman. “They all say that or ‘Consider the lilies of the field.’” Drew crumples the fortune and throws it toward the garbage. He misses.

  “Aren’t you going to pick it up? It has your biometrics all over it.”

  Drew gets up and tosses it in the basket.

  The policeman thrusts a clip-screen into his hand. “Fill out this form.”

  Drew takes it and looks. He sees a series of inkblots and a list of multiple-choice questions. Drew reads: Is this a picture of a man killing a woman with an ax or an ax killing a woman with a man? Pick or an answer will be assigned to you.

  “This is ridiculous,” Drew says. “I refuse to answer.”

  “I’m noting that you have a hostile vicious attitude. Is that what you want?”

  Drew sighs and picks up the stylus.

  Five minutes later, the inner door opens. An android that was hauled in from Disconnect, a home for retired androids because the police were short staffed, pushes a walker and shuffles to the center of the room.

  “Next number,” it shouts. Drew hands it the paper. “We’re sorry. This is not a valid number. Please check the number and try again.”

  “How can the number two not be a valid number?” Drew asks.

  The policeman looks up. “Sorry for that. Two is an even number. They sent the odd man out.” He pushes his keyboard. The android turns and makes a slow exit. Then an identical android appears.

  “Next number,” it shouts in the same mechanical voice. Drew shakes his head, makes an annoyed expression and hands it the number two.

  “I’ve learned not to mess with them,” the policeman says. “They have a very strong union.”

  When Lamont confronts Drew about taking a substance from Congress Drugs, Drew doesn’t deny it.

  “I didn’t know why Rocket wanted it nor what he would do with it. You’ve got to believe me. I swear I’m telling the truth. I’m even willing to submit to Chinese water torture, circumcision—anything to prove it.”

  Lamont, pausing for maximized drama and not missing a wonderful opportunity to stick it to Drew, looks down at Drew’s trousers and lets him think that he is considering circumcision. Then Lamont raises his eyes and says, “But after the poisoning, when the market crashed, people privy to insider information were able to make money selling short. Bet you made a bundle.”

  Drew’s eyes shift sideways. He says nothing.

  “By the way, that substance you took from Congress Drugs and gave to Rocket was harmless.”

  “Harmless? What do you mean, harmless? Didn’t people fall into comas after eating poisoned Chocolate Moons?”

  “Yes, they did, but not from what you took from Congress Drugs. You must have been in such a rush that you grabbed the first white powder you saw, thinking it was the anti-flavonoid.”

  “Did anyone else take the real anti-flavonoid?”

  “Yes, three other people.”

  “Three? You’re sure?”

  “Who are they?”

  “We can’t disclose the information at this time because we are still in the process of collecting evidence.”

  “So why am I in trouble if I’m not the one who took the anti-flavonoid?”

  “You stole a product from Congress Drugs that didn’t belong to you. Sandy Andreas wants to press charges. But if you cooperate we can reduce them.”

  “Cooperate? What do you want me to do?”

  “Help us catch Scheherazade and in exchange we’ll give you a sweet deal.”

  “Done,” he says, wondering if he agreed too quickly.

  39

  CRAIG CASHEW CALLS a meeting of Culinary Institute security guards and tells us that Sandy Andreas is expanding San Andreas Farms. For the next two weeks, Sandy needs additional personnel until a larger team is hired.

  Jersey and I, anxious to get an insider’s view of the farms, volunteer to go.

  When CC learns that San Andreas Farms is expanding and knowing there will be a lot of digging as part of the construction she freezes. Then she calls Sandy Andreas.

  “I hear you’re developing new la
nd. I was wondering if you would like me to do a follow-up story about San Andreas Farms.”

  “News travels fast,” Sandy says. “That will be great. I’ll also give you an exclusive on our newest project, blue watermelons. I always thought that the insides of watermelons should be blue because they are made of so much water.

  “Makes sense. What did you do?”

  “When we tweaked the DNA of blueberries and watermelons the inside color looked like blue sky reflected in a lake.”

  “Wow!” CC says. “They should make a big splash when they hit the market next month. I’ll give them a big plug.”

  I get a few days off before the assignment begins. It has been a long time since I’ve had people over for dinner and it will give me an opportunity to meet Becky’s new boyfriend, a yodeler named Franklin Delano Rosenberg whom Becky calls FDR and Cortland calls a person who can’t sing.

  Lois will be shopping with Flo, a much higher priority than eating, so I invite Jersey and Trenton who never decline a dinner invitation.

  I wear a loose blue-and-gold-striped caftan that hides my bulges and ballet flats so I don’t wobble on heels as I serve. Since my trip to Rose’s Heaven, and asked if I was in the over-five–hundred-pounds category, I watch what I eat. The bulges are smaller as pounds come off. But no one notices, least of all Cortland, who doesn’t see my progress because he travels and is exhausted after searching for new talent for his music agency, Molawn Music. Last week he signed the Bottles, a six-pack of vocalists he found at a recycling plant.

  While I’m setting the table, Lamont calls. “I called to tell you we determined the identity of the third person whose biometrics were found next to where the missing poisonous anti-flavonoids should be at the Congress Drugs lab.”

  “Was it Sandy’s wife, Solaria, or her cousin Pluto?” I ask, adjusting the flowers I had put in the center of the table.