Chocolate Chocolate Moons

by JACKIE KINGON

  I give a cold, blank stare. How could anyone think I weigh more than five hundred Earth pounds? Are the twins right? Do I look that bad? For the first time in my life, I am seriously upset about my weight. “Rose’s Regular,” I mumble.

  I am shown to my room by a bouncy round woman. “You can adjust the gravity from Earth level to weightless by pushing a button next to the bed. Some people like to try it out while they are lying down. Earth’s gravity gets people depressed. Almost everyone who comes here has forgotten how heavy it made them feel, except of course for those just released from Jupiter’s penal colony.” She peers at me closely. “You’re not coming from there, are you?”

  She opens a closet door. A mirror on the back looks like it came from a fun house. “You can also adjust this to show how you look now or how you’d look if you gained or lost weight. Lots of people keep it on the lowest, which is the skinniest setting, because they have a good idea what more weight would look like but have no idea about less.”

  “I know how they feel,” I say.

  “There are several restaurants,” she continues. “The heart of the spa is the never-ending buffet. Some guests spend all their time at the buffet, except to bathe, sleep and change their clothes.”

  “Are there any exercise classes?”

  “Of course. We have classes that teach how to get two hot dogs on one roll, eat the crumbs off a crumb cake so it doesn’t show, pick the chocolate chips out of cookies without breaking them and triple the food on your plate at a salad bar. If you need anything, just call. My name is Jumbo.”

  She pushes a button and chocolate melts over the door lock and seals it. “When you want to get back in, just crack it open. You can eat the lock.” Watch me. She taps the lock with the key that she hands me and chocolate pieces fall into her hand.

  Wow! I think, What a place. No wonder it’s in space.

  I decide to explore. The first place I go is the gift shop. There is a book display up front for touting: Baby Ruth: The Story of a Ballplayer Who Became a Candy Bar and Yolks Without Whites, a love story that I read and cried over last year.

  “How about a book on investing in chocolate malteds?” asks the saleswoman. “They never go down in calories.”

  “I’ll think about it.” I thumb a copy of the spa’s magazine, Eating. I glance at the guest columnists and jump. Decibel Point has written an article on sleeping and eating versus bathing and eating. Then I read my horoscope. It says if I sign up now as a Rose’s regular, I’ll receive a discount and will gain fifty pounds in the next six months. I’m surprised at how upset this makes me and vow to watch my weight when I get home.

  The buffet is in an enormous crowded room. The ceiling has a blue sky with white clouds so realistic that if I didn’t know better, I would think it was a sunny day on Earth. There are rows of standing rib roasts, platters of lobsters, clams and shrimps to fill a sea, bowls of pastas that would fill Italy, potatoes that would fill Ireland, fields of green vegetables, and a wall with spigots that pump out every kind of sauce. The smell from the ovens, baking every type of bread from brioche to matzos, makes me swoon. Down a hall is an area called Paradise Found. It is filled with desserts: one area for frozen treats, one for sweet melted choices, and another for cakes, pies and cookies.

  I elbow my way toward the center of the main room. “Don’t fondle the fondant,” someone yells as I eye chocolate-dipped strawberries. I am sinking into a meditative reverie from sensory overload when I spot Decibel. I recognize him the moment he opens his mouth and bites into a large ball of mozzarella cheese as though it were an apple. I blink my eye cam, which Lamont had me wear, and send a holo to Trenton. I back into a relatively quiet corner and wait for their answer. There’s a long delay.

  Finally Jersey calls. “Sorry I took so long. I was making Trenton lunch.”

  “Trenton is eating lunch? Since when is lunch important to Trenton? I thought he almost never eats.”

  “I found a box of Quark’s Neutrinos at Stop the Shop. Neutrinos come in six flavors. I bought tau and muon. Trenton can’t decide which he likes better, but that’s no problem because when they’re oscillated, they get a greater mass and can exchange flavors with each other. Now that I think of it, I should have bought only one box.”

  “You mean if you buy a box of vanilla it could turn into a box of chocolate?”

  “And strawberry and lemon, and in time, all the rest of the flavors.”

  “That’s a big bang for the bucks. How many calories do they have?”

  “Did I hear you say calories? Since when do you concern yourself with calories? I thought you went to Rose’s Heaven to get away from that.”

  I say nothing, because I don’t have a good answer.

  “We received the picture of Decibel and forwarded it to Lamont. He’s on his way. Do you think you can keep him busy till he gets there?”

  I zigzag through the crowd and circle closer to Decibel who is admiring several suckling pigs rotating on spits. Their fat crackles and drips onto mountains of fluffy mashed potatoes below. I come closer. Decibel looks at me and asks, “Are you going to dinner after this?” He doesn’t wait for an answer. “Come, join me in the main dining room.” He holds out his arm.

  My skin grows tight. And, even though I have neither the intention nor the ability to eat another meal after the buffet and, in addition, feel a twinge of guilt accepting a dinner invitation from a man who is not my husband, it is a great opportunity to get the skinny on Decibel. So, I take his arm.

  Several banana-and coconut-shaped chandeliers hang from a vaulted ceiling; a fountain of pink champagne splashes on an ice sculpture of Rose on one side of the room and a candy sculpture of Rose emerging from a twenty-layer cake on the other. The gravity is set to the level of Mars’s moon Phobos—just enough so the food will not fly off the table but the patrons still feel light. The caterer is a descendent from Earth’s Borscht Belt, located in mountains called the Catskills. The waiters, who double as verbal pugilists, put every appetizer from the menu on the table without being asked.

  “That’s what I love about this place,” Decibel says. “They know how we think.” He scoops some chopped liver on a cracker and pops it into his mouth. “Delicious. Try the chopped herring.” He pushes the plate toward me.

  We start by sharing a double order of cream of- matzo-ball soup, followed by several ribs from a standing rib roast with four types of mashed potatoes and vegetables au gratin. This is followed by fettuccine Alfredo. We each get a bottle of white wine followed by a bottle of red wine. I can’t finish so Decibel finishes it for me. He orders raspberry mousse and chocolate pudding for dessert and makes a speech about endorphins.

  “You must be a scientist. You seem to know the chemical compositions of all the foods. Where do you work?” I ask.

  “Here and there. Mostly I freelance.”

  “I used to know someone at Congress Drugs.”

  “Everyone knows someone at Congress Drugs. It’s the biggest drug company and pays the lowest salaries. The turnover is enormous. I can’t stand executive vice president Drew Barron. What a phony snob! Thinks he knows everything.” His lips tighten.

  “Really?” I smile for a million obvious reasons.

  “What does your husband do?”

  “He used to run a chain of Green Men Pizzas, but now he’s in the music business.”

  “Green Men Pizza? It’s the best. Nine pies with all toppings are my limit though.”

  Decibel sees me looking at a small amount of chocolate pudding he left in a dish. “My mother told me it was good manners to leave a drop. If I were tortured, all anyone would have to do is lock me in a room with dishes that have one last tiny bit of my favorite foods and not let me eat them.”

  I laugh. Decibel smiles. “Do you have any children?” I ask.

  “I have a daughter, Breezy, but she lives with a guy I can’t stand, Pluto Pastrami. He’s Solaria Andreas’s cousin—you know the one who had that Mars Malt party. Pluto gets not
hing from that side of his family and is always scrounging around. I wish Breezy would leave him, but she says every time she thinks of doing so she gets a ding-dong sound in her head. Besides, she says she loves it when he tickles her feet.” Decibel scoops raspberry mousse into his mouth. “Do you have any children?”

  I’m about to tell him about Cortland and the twins, but before I can, a waiter comes over and places a plate of bitter herbs before Decibel.

  “What’s this? I didn’t order this.”

  “Compliments of the two men over there,” the waiter says pointing to Lamont and Sid, who are standing to the side of the room waving their badges over their heads. “They say you would know what these weeds are. I personally would have preferred a glass of port and a dish of after-dinner mints.”

  Lamont and Sid approach. I blush and lower my head, embarrassed that I misled him. Decibel looks more helpless than a fish on a hook.

  “Sorry to break up your little party, Decibel Point,” Lamont says. “But we’re here to bring you in for questioning concerning the death of your colleague Rocket Packarod.”

  36

  SCHEHERAZADE MOVES CLOSE to Drew. She circles around peering closely. The contrast between her knights, all of whom look like 507 and 509, make her realize how long it has been since she was with someone so handsome. Drew senses passion not danger. He risks eye contact and offers a shy smile. She takes his hand and pulls him toward her desk then reaches under and clicks open a small refrigerator and removes a bottle of perfectly chilled champagne and two tall flutes.

  “Shall we?” she says twisting off the cap and pouring. Their fingers curl around the stems.

  “To art,” Drew says glancing sideways at the Giacometti. Scheherazade sees his eye shift but says nothing. They clink their glasses and look at each other for a long moment.

  Scheherazade breaks the silence and says. “I majored in art at college. I wrote a thesis on ‘The Moan of Lisa’ and why she wore a mustache. But only Mad magazine would publish my theories.”

  “Ah,” Drew says. “Brains as well as beauty.” Feeling more confident he asks, “Is Scheherazade your real name?”

  “No, it’s Sondra Audrey Goldwyn. But you need something exotic in the art counterfeiting business.” She raises an eyebrow. “I changed it officially on Ellis bin Laden Island. Paid extra for a tattoo of Ellis. Want to see?”

  “Depends on the where it is.” Drew takes two fingers and strokes her neck. Then feeling no resistance, he slides his hand to her right breast and gently squeezes.

  “Oooh,” she says in a low husky voice arching her back like a cat.

  Feeling braver he squeezes the left.

  “Ahhh,” she says arching further.

  “Do you prefer oooh or ahhh?”

  “Why quibble?” she pants.

  Drew’s hand slides lower. He tugs at her tight black skirt. “Not quibbling,” he murmurs feeling the skirt release. “Just getting ready to sign on the bottom line.”

  After a night of bliss, 509 knocks on Scheherazade’s door and wheels in a double order of eggs Benedict, honey-roasted bacon, warm brioche that looks to Drew like two breasts, butter curls, passion fruit marmalade and strong hot coffee.

  “The coffee is a special blend from San Andreas Farms. Buy one, get one free,” Scheherazade says.

  Drew clears his throat and coughs several times.

  “What’s the matter? Did I say something wrong?”

  “No, it’s just that Sandy Andreas is my boss and I didn’t expect to hear his name. Rocket offered me a job heading a drug company he bought on Titan. Now that he’s gone I’m not sure what I’ll do. The company is still there even if Rocket is gone.” Drew sips his coffee and bites off the top of a brioche. “I asked you this before but you never answered me. Do you remember me from Gramercy Gardens? You came with Rocket.”

  “Yes, and you came with Kandy Cohen.”

  “Kandy Kane,” corrects Drew. “She was a former Miss Universe.”

  “A former Miss Nose Job Universe. Kandy Cohen. Definitely.”

  Drew sighs.

  “What’s in the case that you never let out of your sight?”

  “It’s a valuable Giacometti sculpture. I was Park Bengay’s highest bidder.”

  Scheherazade slides out of bed and puts on a robe. “Rocket brought me a Giacometti that he said was very valuable.”

  “Is that the one on your desk?”

  “It is,” she says tying the sash of her robe into a bow.

  “Let’s compare them after we dress and shower,” Drew says.

  Scheherazade pouts. “If you insist but I’d be in a better mood if we added another activity.”

  Drew puts his case on Scheherazade’s desk and opens it. He takes out his Giacometti and places it next to hers. “It is amazing how much they look alike,” he says. Then before she can examine them closely, he puts his Giacometti back in its case. Drew sees that Scheherazade is startled so he quickly changes the subject. “Tell me was there ever an Ali Baba?”

  “Of course. He offered me this job because he couldn’t take any more dark nights of the soul and clouds of unknowing and wanted a job in Las Venus, a place where the action never stops. He now works for Donald the Twentieth.”

  “Donald Trump the Twentieth?”

  “Who’s Donald Trump? Ali works for Donald Duck. Want to visit him? I’m tired of hearing the problems of a thousand and one knights who only want to work days.”

  Before Drew can answer, she walks to a closet and takes out an expensive Tabriz rug.

  “Magic, right?” Drew says. “Does it work?”

  “Of course it works. How did you think we would travel? Click our heels together three times and say there’s no place like Las Venus and when we open our eyes we’ll be there?” She pushes a button on the wall. 507 and 509 enter with a stretcher and place the rug on top. Scheherazade gets on and motions for Drew to sit behind snowmobile style. He wraps his arms around her waist. They lift the stretcher place it on a rover and drive them to the transport.

  When they arrive Scheherazade opens her palm and says, “Code forty-three.”

  “What’s code forty-three?” Drew asks.

  “Frequent flyer miles.”

  The minute Scheherazade and Drew enter the Las Venus Casino paparazzi greet them and send a live broadcast to Mars Media’s High Society Channel. Kandy, who never watches any other channel, tunes in, jumps, realizes what’s happening and packs her bags.

  “This way,” Scheherazade says threading through the noisy crowd past loud rows of blinking slot machines, roulette wheels and black jack tables. She pushes Drew into a corner of a dark restaurant. A waiter approaches and hands them an oversized menu. “I know this place so let me order. I’ll make it simple.”

  The waiter returns for their order.

  Scheherazade looks up and smiles. “Large fresh beluga, large smoked salmon, fresh truffle risotto, a flaming pheasant, two racks of lamb and two bottles of pink champagne.”

  “You call that simple?”

  She grabs his hand and before he realizes what’s happening she activates his palm pay. “Simple for Las Venus,” she says dabbing her mouth with a white linen napkin.

  They exit the restaurant and blink into the casino’s bright lights. Scheherazade links her arm through Drew’s arm. They pass several gaming tables and head toward a man shaking some dice. His only distinguishing feature is a big nose. Without any introduction Scheherazade thrusts her hand toward his nose. “Ali is going to let us win,” she says giving his nose a twist. “Or he knows that I’ll send 509 to collect back pay. Isn’t that right, Ali?”

  Ali rubs his nose. “Good to see you too, Sondra Audrey,” he says deliberately to annoy her. Scheherazade winces. He eyes Drew. “I see life at the ABC is agreeing with you.”

  Drew is taken back by this performance and thinks of sweet Kandy, whom he suddenly misses. He sighs knowing that Kandy would never do anything like this.

  The next day, before Dre
w finishes packing for his trip home, he puts a small mark on the base of his Giacometti and goes into Scheherazade’s office. He snaps his case open, removes his Giacometti and places it on her desk next to her Giacometti as he did before. “Las Venus put me in a risky mood,” he says. “Why don’t we exchange sculptures? Who knows which one is real?”

  Before Scheherazade can answer, he puts his hands on both sculptures sliding and switching them around and around playing the three card Monte trick Rocket played on him. His hands move faster and faster.

  “Stop!” she shouts. “You’re mixing them up.”

  Drew does one last complicated pass, grabs her Giacometti, throws it into his case. A DNA bolt slides shut. Scheherazade’s face twists. She knows that she can’t get the case to open without blowing up Drew, whom she no longer cares about and its contents, which she does.

  Drew takes the case walks to the door and opens it. 507 and 509 who were waiting outside and heard everything start to stop him.

  Scheherazade raises her hand. “Let him go,” she snarls. “We’ll deal with him later.”

  Drew walks through the door and starts down the hall. “We’re not finished with this!” he hears echoing behind him.

  37

  PLUTO AND BREEZY are making love. The holo blinks “Priority: Incoming.” The service-bot stops watching them and answers. It’s a recorded message requesting that Breezy come to Mars Yard.

  “Why me and not you?” she pouts.

  “Divide and conquer, baby. I’m sure Mars Yard will get me next.” He deletes the service-bot’s recent-memory chip.

  Breezy rises and slithers into a silky mauve robe that had fallen on the floor.

  Pluto continues, “I don’t think this is about our visit to the Candy Universe. I’m sure if they had found something connecting us to the poisoning of the Chocolate Moons, we would have already heard from Mars Yard. No one saw me throw any of that stuff Rocket gave me into the vat because everyone was distracted by the alarm. My guess is that this is about Rocket’s death on the transport.” Pluto picks up a pillow and throws it on the bed. “Let’s review.”