Chocolate Chocolate Moons

by JACKIE KINGON

  I take a sip and know why I married him.

  Cortland grabs the remote and switches channels.

  “Stop!” I say. “You just passed the Mars Media station! Look, it now says it is owned and operated by Carbon Copies Media. CC will be interviewed by Nova Scotia on her program, Getting Creamed with Nova.”

  “So what? I want the super solar broadcast from Earth.” His thumb plays with the remote. “Who’s CC?”

  “CC, Colorful Copies—the girl I told you about, the one who stole Drew from me. Her father owns Carbon Copies Media and Mars Media. I read that she’s become an investigative reporter. She visited San Andreas Farms and Congress Drugs and got an exclusive interview with Sandy Andreas.”

  “Oh, that CC. The girl with the rainbow-colored eyebrows.” Cortland touches his own straggly brows.

  “My friends back on the Moon told me that when Drew left she was bitter and vowed revenge. I wonder if she still holds a grudge.” I punch up my pillow and sip my margarita. “Do you think she saw Drew when she was at Congress Drugs?”

  “Yeah, yeah, thin, handsome Drew Barron.” Cortland sharpens the holographic image of CC that appears in the center of our bedroom.

  If I didn’t recognize CC’s voice and rainbow colored eyebrows, I wouldn’t know it was her, because everything science, medicine, makeup, and wardrobe can do CC had done. And done very well! Her mousy brown hair is sleek, long, and blond. She wears a pink-and-gray jacket in a floral design, a gray skirt, and a tight silver tank top. Gold charms of antique computers dangle from a bracelet on her wrist.

  “Thank you for coming on such short notice, Colorful Copies,” says Nova Scotia, whose salmon-colored hair is in a high beehive style. “Please call me CC. All my friends do.” Nova smiles. “What a lovely bracelet, CC.”

  “Oh, that.” CC flicks her wrist and beams into the camera. “Well, Daddy gives me a charm every time he promotes me. So far I have eight.” She holds her arm to the camera and counts. “Oh, no!” she stammers. “Seven! I have seven. I must have lost one.” She lowers her arm and rubs her wrist.

  “I’m sure you’ll find it,” Nova Scotia says, leaning toward CC and giving her a knowing wink. “You spent two weeks at San Andreas Farms and Congress Drugs. What was your impression of Mr. Andreas?”

  “Sandy’s such a sweetie-pie! All my time was spent with him except for an hour at Congress Drugs, when he was called away and I was on my own with a room full of robots and one very fat scientist. He was working on making cheese from an ancient dairy product popular on Earth called milk of magnesia. He said it’s a dangerous explosive. When he learned I was with Carbon Copies Media, he said that Congress Drugs should upgrade its testing procedures, because it was cutting corners to get new products to market faster.

  “Did you get his name?”

  “Something with a Point in it: Needle Point, Pencil Point.”

  “How about Decibel Point?”

  “Bingo!”

  “It is unfortunate that the troubles at the Culinary Institute’s Candy Universe have come during your visit to Mars. Will you interview the Culinary Institute’s CEO, Craig Cashew, when you’re there?”

  “I’ve been trying to set a date, but our meeting has been delayed because the police are investigating the incidents at the Candy Universe. Mr. Cashew assures me that I won’t have to wait much longer.”

  “We would love for you to come back and tell us all about—”

  Cortland clicks to Earth’s channel. “Seen and heard enough? I never cared for either Mars Media or Carbon Copies Media. I still want to watch Earth’s version of the news.”

  I drain my pomegranate margarita. All gone.

  The holograph shifts. A voice over music says, “Welcome to evening news. Live from the only city Earthlings could agree on for their capital because it sits on the equator—Quito, Ecuador. Reporting tonight is our very own sanitized, purified, and distilled Lourdes Bottled Waters.”

  Lourdes announces, “Tonight’s story is about two children poisoned after eating Chocolate Moons at the Culinary Institute on Mars. Live from Pharaoh Specific Hospital in Pharaoh City, Mars is Katy Catty.”

  Katy Catty says, “Two children are upstairs in comas, Lourdes. This happened immediately after the two ate Chocolate Moons at the Culinary Institute. Laboratory analysis reveals that blood samples taken from the children contain a strange substance that in larger doses would have caused death. More tests are needed. There are now twenty-three similar cases around the planet of people falling into comas.

  “The mystery remains: although each person ate one Chocolate Moon, all the remaining Moons in the packages tested negative for additives or poison. I learned that all the candy was made at the same time and reached consumers in other cities the same day the candy was placed in the cases at the Candy Universe. This was done so there would be a consistency in the shelf life of every piece. Maybe random candies absorbed the poison, leaving the rest—either in the boxes or in Candy Universe display cases—harmless. Back to you, Lourdes.”

  I say to Cortland, “I’ll ask Jersey if she knows how they distribute Chocolate Moons.”

  “Shh,” he says. “Want to hear this.”

  “Now for our financial report, brought to you by Money in Space. Reporting from the floor of our space station is Barter Roma.”

  “Correction, correction, Lourdes. I’m not on the floor. I am standing on what might be considered the ceiling, wearing magnetic shoes. The market looks a lot different from this vantage point. Everyone knows that financial markets are too important to be restricted by gravity, and that was the main reason those who meet and eat at the Warren Buffet decided to relocate the financial markets to space, the final financial frontier.”

  She takes two clunky steps toward the camera and pushes away the hair that fell toward her eyes. “And just to remind viewers, we reporters report. We don’t judge. We graph the charts and chart the graphs. We make bar codes and codes for bars. Ah, the medium, the message, the perception, the reality. So, stop asking me to give you any tips!” Barter Roma points a finger toward the camera and trills, “But I love you guys anyway.”

  “Hmm,” Lourdes says, sensing that Barter Roma is getting carried away. “This has been quite a day, hasn’t it, Barter?”

  “Yes, it has. Especially for the Culinary Institute’s Candy Universe, that makes Chocolate Moons, and San Andreas Farms, which grows and supplies all the chocolate. Their stocks tumbled and tumbled. And then they really tumbled. By the way, Lourdes, do you see Coconut Comets floating outside? My kids would love those.”

  Barter Roma winks and waves at the camera. “Hi, Ritalin. Hi, Risperdal.”

  “I love this show!” Cortland says. “Teaches you how to be rich and poor at the same time.”

  Lourdes Bottled Waters says, “No matter what the perception, we have just confirmed from Craig Cashew, CEO of the Culinary Institute, which houses the Candy Universe, that all Chocolate Moons have been pulled from the market. Government Health Commissioner Pliny the Elder recommends that Chocolate Moons be replaced with Lemon Suns.” Pause and music. “Coming up next and live from Mars, What a Racket with Katie Racket. Tonight, Katie’s guest is Drew Barron, executive vice president in charge of marketing at Congress Drugs.”

  I freeze. A pink flush spreads over my face. I grab a tissue and ball it into my fist.

  “Drew Barron?” Lois shouts from the next room, interrupting her study of hair colors for square roots. “Your old boyfriend, Mom!” The twins flutter to my side. They plop on the end of our bed and, for a rare and brief moment, are silent, watching the screen.

  Drew waits in the studio. And although he knows that Katie Racket is called “Katie Attack It,” adrenalin pumps confidence. He adjusts his blue paisley tie.

  “Don’t forget to sit on the bottom of your jacket, Mr. Barron,” the makeup artist says, applying a light dusting of face powder to Drew’s forehead. “That keeps it from riding up around your shoulders.”

  Wh
ile Katie Racket’s intro music plays, she touches her sleek chignon, narrows her feline green eyes, straightens her back to show off her smooth tanned body and eighteen-inch waist, and clicks her purple pumps together. She peers with wide-eyed, loving innocence into the camera and in a throaty voice says, “Welcome to our show, Drew. You don’t mind if I call you Drew?”

  Drew smiles a dental-convention smile. “Glad to be here, Katie. Thanks for having me.”

  Katie Racket leans in with a fastball. “So, do you think there is a connection between the problems with the chocolate the Candy Universe received from San Andreas Farms and the manufacturing of Chocolate Moons?”

  Drew looks at Katie then looks innocently at the camera. “I have no idea. Your guess is as good as mine. All I know is that all our products are the best and the finest. We even export to Earth.”

  “But that didn’t stop San Andreas Farms, Congress Drugs and the Culinary Institute’s stocks from crashing as soon as the news of people getting sick was announced. Who knows when and where the poison was inserted into the chocolate. Could have been contaminated on a San Andreas farm or during shipping.”

  “That’s true, Katie. There are several points along the way to the Culinary Institute’s Candy Universe where the chocolate could have been contaminated. But I think you are overreacting.”

  Katie frowns.

  “Crashing is a harsh term,” Drew cautions. “Perhaps San Andreas Farms, Congress Drugs and the Culinary Institute’s stocks were high and needed correcting. These bursts happen all the time. It was a coincidence unrelated to our product. Lots of other stocks took a tumble.”

  “Any likelihood that some people were privy to insider information, and when stocks dropped in value, insiders sold short making a bundle?” Their eyes lock. “Care to comment about the people who ate Chocolate Moons and are in comas in the hospital? What are the chances they will not recover and will die?”

  “Like everyone, Katie, I feel terrible but as I said, I have no more information than you.” Drew’s hands rise for effect.

  “And what about Congress Drugs’ practice of giving educational grants to doctors and groups who advance drugs before they have completely cleared the testing process?”

  “One question at a time, Katy. Mr. Andreas does have a scholarship fund that brings its recipients to Mars to study. Are you accusing us of unethical practices?”

  Katie ignores the question and strikes. “What about Congress Drugs keeping negative findings on their products’ secret and publishing only positive results?”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “To me, the term investigational drugs are incomplete or vague and smacks of a smokescreen.”

  Drew leans forward and is about to answer, but Katie raises her hand. “We’ll be back with more questions for Drew Barron, executive vice president of Congress Drugs. Stay tuned.”

  The twins look at their father, slumped in his faded gray Cracked Craters sweatshirt, the one he refuses to throw out. “Drew looks so much younger than you, Dad,” Lois whines. “Are you sure you’re the same age?”

  I give the girls a serious look. “I told you at the spaceport when we arrived and you saw Drew in the Freedom Plan ad that he didn’t look like that when I knew him. He was fat. He had circles under his eyes. His socks had holes. His hair was blue. Our friends called him Lord of the Onion Rings. He looks like that now because he takes all those fake food supplements and professional stylists groom him and pick his clothes.”

  “Well…” Becky and Lois singsong.

  “Well what?”

  The girls roll their eyes. Compared to Drew, Cortland is flabby, old, and overweight.

  I put my arms around Cortland and squeeze. “Fake food from a fake guy. This is what the real thing looks like, girls.”

  Becky and Lois look at each other, shake their heads, and sigh. “In that case we’re never getting married,” Lois says.

  13

  ROCKET KEEPS A small apartment on Titan, one of Saturn’s moons, a place of fancy boutiques, trendy restaurants, vague laws, and obscure regulations, and whose “religious freedoms” allow its citizens to worship the law in spirit rather than in practice.

  Rocket arrived yesterday. The trip on the Mars–Titan transport offered a rare break from the tensions and unwanted surprises that usually fill his life and the best place to buy duty-free unregulated products at the transport’s popular Hogwarts Health Foods.

  Rocket adds a packet of rare Uranium minerals to a pot of fenugreek tea. He sniffs and stirs until it turns blue. Then he pours a cup, sits, slurps, and admires his copy of Andy Warhol’s Dollar Sign, which he bought on his last visit to the ABC (Ali Baba Caves) from Scheherazade that hangs on one wall. This makes him think about the auction at Park Bengay that made headlines when Drew Barron outbid Craig Cashew for the expensive Giacometti sculpture. He swallows a vitamin C covered in a vitamin B and lets a few ideas concerning Craig Cashew and Drew Barron percolate.

  Rocket remembers a time twenty years ago when his path crossed with budding gourmet Craig Cashew, when both were students at Why U. He still laughs thinking how Craig gasped watching him put flaxseed oil on chocolate cake.

  “Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it,” Rocket said. “Marketed correctly, chocolate flaxseed oil could be the next big thing.”

  Craig, who didn’t know what to make of Rocket, was taken aback but intrigued. He knew that food fashion, like all fashion, is fickle. Rocket could be right.

  Soon thereafter, Rocket lured Craig into an illegal game that used hallucinogenic drugs called glass beads, run by a former classmate whose real name was Sondra Audrey Goldwyn but changed to Scheherazade to annoy and end-run her parents, who wanted her to marry a proctologist. Scheherazade had been kicked out of school for selling what she insisted were strands from a shroud from Titan but were really cut-up sweaty towels stolen from the girls’ locker room. The game was held in the back of the home economics lab, where the hypnotic smell of freshly baked garlic bread and one too many gin-soaked matzo balls gave Craig Cashew misplaced confidence.

  Craig took a big hit. To erase his debt, he agreed to help Rocket and Scheherazade transport a shipment of glass beads off-planet. Craig overheard Rocket say to Scheherazade, “Don’t worry; I took my own ‘insurance policy’ out on Craig Cashew,” meaning Rocket kept proof of this transaction and could use it in the future to blackmail him.

  When Scheherazade made enough money from the bead game, she reinvented herself as a high-class art dealer selling to many of her former glass bead clients. She bought land between New Chicago and Pharaoh City, where she built the Ali Baba Caves, a vast underground complex that housed her apartment, offices, art factory, and a storage facility promptly filled with acquisitions from a disproportionate number of people named Anonymous.

  Scheherazade sits on a rose-and-cream-striped Viennese Biedermeier sofa in her large living area that was copied from a design Brunelleschi used for the Pazzi Chapel in Florence. She extends her pinky as she raises a Wedgwood blue cup of mint tea to her red lips. Her eyes wander over the mosaics that rival those in Ravenna, Italy, that cover the floor. Then she admires a large copy of Giovanni Bellini’s St. Francis in Ecstasy that hangs from one wall and a copy of Botticelli’s Birth of Venus that hangs from another.

  Her craftsmen have placed six copies of Rodin’s sculpture of Balzac recently made in her art factory to the side of the room. Three are larger than the original and come in fluorescent red, yellow, or blue; and three are smaller in Scottish plaids—all best sellers to those living in McMansions on McSatellites.

  No sooner does she put her tea down than her palm signals a call from Rocket.

  “What can I do for you, Rocket? Want another Andy Warhol?” “I want a copy of the Giacometti that Drew Barron got at Park Bengay.”

  “Giacometti. No problem. Can I interest you in a pair? Two for the price of one, this week only. I also have three Davids by Michael and Angelo in tall, grande, and vente. You migh
t want to know that Park Bengay just reserved the grande.”

  “Hmmm,” Rocket says to show that he is listening.

  “Or a sculpture of Mozart the Fortieth, a brave man of La Mancha, standing near a gang of wolves. Lenny Bernstein’s barbershop quartet just confirmed that the flute that he is holding is magic.”

  “No thanks. I bought a Mozart last year when it was rated A-sharp and I ended up selling it in D-flat. No need for another Mozart’s requiem. Just make it one Giacometti.”

  Rocket calls Drew.

  The moment Drew answers, two women Rocket previously made an appointment with arrive earlier than expected. He clicks off the visual, because they are putting him in a compromising position. Then he hears Drew say, “You must want something important, Rocket, or you wouldn’t be calling.”

  “I’ll be at the St. Trophy Bar next week. I want to stop up and see that Giacometti sculpture again.”

  Drew is suspicious. “Again? Why do you want to see it again?”

  Rocket doesn’t answer. Drew hears several soft oohs followed by several louder ahhs. “Rocket, are you all right?”

  Drew hears him clear his throat. “Just having my windows washed. They’re using new equipment that does a lot of deep, heavy blowing. What’s a good time?”

  “Okay, Tuesday noon solar time.”

  Drew opens the door. A gray antigravity case floats next to Rocket. Drew points to the case. “What’s that?”

  “A little surprise. But first I wanna tell you how brilliant you were on the Katy Racket show. Also, I got you and Kandy a reservation for the Nirgal Palace next weekend. It’s that new luxury hotel that circles Mars on its own space station.

  “That’s very nice of you. Every time I call, they say they only have a small inner ring room or they’re booked.”

  “You gotta know someone. And lucky for you, you know me. I’ll be there for business, but I’ll make time for a drink. Love to be seen with Kandy.”