Chocolate Chocolate Moons

by JACKIE KINGON

  “As a matter of fact, I was following you. I had a feeling you were headed for the cacao trees and thought the chances were good that you might spend the whole day there. So I decided the only way you would cover more ground was if I helped you move it along, so I reversed my direction and followed you.”

  “Good thing,” I mumble.

  “After you eye-cammed the holos to Lamont, he knew something was wrong because you didn’t respond to his next call. Then he contacted me. I got to you right after she knocked you out with her shoe. What an ugly style. If I had her money, I never would have bought it. Did you see that decorative strap? So passé.”

  “Please, Jersey, then what happened?”

  “Shazam! Kapow! I gave her a right cross followed by a left hook. When I added a side kick to her lower leg she folded. Too bad you were unconscious; you missed all the action. Anyway, I contacted the head of the San Andreas Farms security team, who came running. CC is beingheld until Lamont arrives.”

  “I was going to recommend in my report that they get more security cameras,” I say. “How often do you think those security holos are reviewed?”

  “Glad you asked that question,” Sandy Andreas says striding toward us with three people in white coats with a stretcher floating next to them. “I’ve already retrieved the security holos and sent them to Mars Yard. We’ll have the results shortly. Meanwhile, these gentlemen will wheel you to our infirmary and check you out. And, in appreciation for all you and your partner did, I am sending both of you free fresh produce of your choice to your homes every week for a year, starting with a case of blue watermelons.”

  “I was so worried,” Cortland says finding me in the infirmary sitting on a white sofa with a glass in my hand. “Jersey called and told me what happened.” He puts his arm around my shoulder. “I’m so relieved you’re all right.”

  I smile weakly.

  “Are you drinking a Top of the Ninth?” he asks.

  “My third one. It’s complimentary. I think I’ll have another.”

  “Is it Passover, Easter, or Ramadan-strength?”

  “You’re asking? I can’t believe you’re asking. It’s Ramadan-strength. CC is very strong. She could have killed me!”

  43

  “YOU WANT ME to help you catch Scheherazade?” Drew asks Lamont. “We didn’t exactly part on friendly terms.”

  “I’m sure a clever guy like you can think of something that will renew your friendship.” Lamont opens a box of Chocolate Moons that has bright red lettering that says new, pure and improved on the front. He offers one to Drew.

  “Thanks,” Drew says taking one. “You’re sure it’s safe.” He puts it in his mouth.

  Lamont waits while Drew lets the chocolate truffle center melt in his mouth. Then he gives a sideways smile and says, “Depends on your definition of safe.”

  Drew swallows knowing that Lamont needs him alive rather than dead. “Who were the other three people who took the poisoned anti-flavonoids?” he asks.

  “One is the scientist Decibel Point. He says he took it because he created the anti-flavonoid and he knew that Congress Drugs never finished testing it. When people were poisoned, he realized that their symptoms matched the symptoms of animals used for the first early tests. He took it because he needed a fresh sample to make an antidote.”

  “I’ve met him at Congress Drugs, but we only said hello. And the others?”

  “One other was Colorful Copies.”

  “CC?” Drew’s eyes widen.

  “Yes, and we had good help solving this from Molly Summers, her partner at the Culinary, Jersey, and Jersey’s husband, Trenton. Molly found a valuable piece of evidence, a charm of CC’s plus a rainbow-colored eyebrow linking her to the crime right near a chocolate refining machine at San Andreas Farms.”

  “Do you have the charm?”

  “Yes and no.”

  “And that means?”

  “We know where it is.”

  “Where?”

  “Molly swallowed it.”

  “You’re kidding!”

  “Molly and CC fought over the charm. Molly told us that this was the only way she could keep CC from getting it.”

  Drew tries to imagine his two former girlfriends in a catfight. He can’t. But when he thinks of Molly swallowing the charm, he finds it easy to visualize.

  “Jersey called us from San Andreas Farms where she and Molly were doing temporary security work and told us what had happened. After CC knocked out Molly, Jersey knocked out CC.”

  Drew hikes his eyebrows, says nothing.

  “We spot-checked the area and found traces of the anti-flavonoid on the ground where Molly found the charm. This definitely links CC to the chocolate poisoning. After we picked CC up and questioned her, she admitted everything because she wanted you to know.”

  “Wanted me to know what? We had a relationship many years ago. It ended badly. I don’t think that had anything to do with this.”

  “Wrong,” says Lamont. “She told us that she did it because she wanted to ruin your reputation. Apparently she never forgave you.”

  “Ruin my reputation? How?”

  “She said that when Sandy Andreas investigated the theft of the missing anti-flavonoid from Congress Drugs, one way or another your name would emerge. And when it did, she, with all her media access, was in a perfect position to give that a big spin filled with innuendos that linked your name with the crime. Even if you were innocent, your credibility as a salesman would be tainted, possibly ruined.

  “She suspected that the anti-flavonoids could be dangerous after she was told by Decibel Point, when she visited Congress Drugs, that he felt that there were not enough tests done on some of their new products. But she didn’t know exactly what the stuff could do. No one at that point did. She threw it in the chocolate refinery in the hopes that it might contain a substance that would give some reaction that would dramatize the event and got more than she bargained for.”

  Drew crosses his legs and gives a very serious look. “Well, she was right about that. You said there was a fourth person? Who could that be?”

  “Still working on it. Whoever took it left no trace. We only know there was someone else because of the weight discrepancies in the anti-flavonoid between what was reported and what was actually there.”

  Drew comes home from Mars Yard haggard and distraught. He pours himself a tall Hadron Collider and carries it to his sofa. If he ever needed his particles accelerated this was the time. He stares at the view of River Area below. Then he turns and looks at the copy of the Giacometti on his marble table, admires the craftsmanship, and gets an idea. He codes Scheherazade’s number and leaves a message. “I know you don’t want to hear from me, but I couldn’t help admiring the craftsmanship that went into creating the Giacometti copy. I’ve decided I would like to buy more art from your factory. Let me know when I can come back and see your complete line. This is strictly business.”

  Not more than a few moments pass when Drew’s palm signals incoming call: “Scheherazade.”

  “Well, well,” Scheherazade laughs. “I can forgive and forget enough for business. After all, my best customer is an educated consumer. Let me send you my catalog? Everything’s in the catalog. Check its fluorescent pink toll-free number on the bottom, 1-800-FAKE-IT.”

  Drew pauses. “Ah,” he says, “but there’s nothing like seeing the real fake in person.”

  “That’s what everyone says, but they don’t know an etching from a lithograph.”

  “But I do,” Drew says, dropping his voice a notch to sound more sincere and less nervous. “I was thinking about a pair of Giacomettis like a Castor and Pollex thing. I’m a Gemini.”

  “You really are into this,” Scheherazade says suspecting that Drew might be laying a trap but decides to play along. “Can I interest you in a trio? Someone just returned a sculpture in brimstone of Shadrach, Meshach and Abed-Nego. I’ll give you a very good price.”

  “Not really my thing.”
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  “Elaine Paginated Pagel’s Art-History Scrolls were just found in the men’s room at the Tate Modern. The cover has a picture of Jesus painting a portrait of Michelangelo. And because I’m willing to let bygones be bygones, I’ll let you have it for only twenty thousand starbucks.”

  Drew considers the offer. If he bought the Art-History Scrolls, he would have spent his last twenty thousand solars, but it was something he always wanted to own anyway—copy or no copy.

  “Can you do any better than that?” he asks.

  “Glad you asked that question. I love a good negotiator. For you, nineteen ninety-nine, but you’re pushing the envelope.”

  “Let me think about it for a few days.”

  “Well, don’t be upset if it’s sold. That scroll takes longer to make than a Torah.”

  Drew pours himself another Hadron Collider and watches the glowing traffic circle River Area. Then he palms Lamont. “I assume you heard the conversation?”

  “Every word, recorded loud and clear.”

  “You must have checked my bank account and know I have a problem with money. You’ll have to give me an advance, or I can’t buy the scrolls.”

  Drew can hear shouting and words like outrageous and robbery on the other end, but finally Lamont says Mars Yard will supply the money. Drew pops one of his dwindling supplies of supplements into his mouth and drains his glass. His mind races as he juggles his options.

  Lamont and Sid make plans to meet Drew at New Chicago’s Central Station. Drew sends his most treasured things to a storage crater on the side of Earth’s moon that is invisible to Earth. It is not far from the shopping center Cortland once invested in that bankrupted him. Drew smiles remembering how Kandy once asked why people on Earth should believe it was real if no one could see it. After all, she argued, land was called real estate for a reason.

  Drew takes a picture of himself receiving a Best Salesmanship award from Sandy off the wall. He turns it over and inserts the tip of his pinky into a slot. Out slides a forged identity card saved for an emergency and a thin box holding a syringe of an illegal substance, courtesy of the late Rocket Packarod, that can change his DNA for seven days. He puts it in the false bottom of his travel case then puts clothing and a few personal belongings on top. After, he calls Lamont.

  “I need more money to do business with Scheherazade.”

  “We heard,” Lamont says. “Your apartment is bugged, remember? Twenty thousand starbucks have already been wired into your Mars card.”

  “And expenses? I need more money for expenses.”

  “Okay, five thousand for expenses.”

  “Twenty,” Drew says.

  “Ten,” Lamont says.

  “Done,” Drew sighs.

  Drew boards a tram at the River Area station heading to New Chicago. His eyes mist as he whizzes by the luxurious Hotel du Antibodies and other expensive neighborhood haunts. He eats three regular Chocolate Moons.

  “Our lunch item today is fettuccini Alfredo and molten chocolate cake for dessert,” says a smiling steward. “Would you like Freedom Plan or Regular Plan?”

  “Regular. But bring me a double brandy Alexander with real cream first.”

  Drew’s order is placed before him. He unfolds his napkin carefully. He raises his fork and twirls the fettuccini toward his lips. “Ahh,” he sighs. Then he thinks, execution by trans fats. Is there a better way to go?

  44

  EVERYONE TEASES ME about thinking there is some kind of French connection and an antidote to the poison the boys at the Candy Universe ingested. I read everything I can on Sensory Dynamics, the new cultural therapies used to awaken comatose patients.

  To enhance my perceptions, I eat lots of escargot and frog’s legs, which is not hard because I love fresh garlic sautéed in butter. I dream of the Eiffel Tower, Jean Valjean’s silver candlesticks, and Karl Lagerfeld’s sunglasses. And most importantly, I take a class that teaches me how to tie one cheap scarf two hundred stylish ways so it looks like two hundred expensive scarves.

  Jersey and my family say I’m crazy. But Trenton, hedging his bets, says the closest thing to encouragement: “Hey, you never know!”

  When I sing “La Marseillaise,” the French National Anthem, my family screams, “Knock it off already!”

  I’m obsessed by Marie Antoinette’s words, “Let them eat cake.” So I savor a double-fudge brownie. Bingo! Knew it! Zest renewed. Told you so!

  I’m sure the answer, like the answers to all great riddles—such as “Did the big bang really say bang?” and “Why do the universe’s building blocks have an A, B, and a C on them?”—is hidden in plain sight. I think of the rhythm of a wooden spoon clicking on the side of a mixing bowl. First slowly then rapidly, repeating like a mantra promising enlightenment. Then words emerge: butter, eggs, flour, sugar, chocolate. I lick my lips, a sure sign that I’m on the right track. I jump in my rover and rush to Jersey and Trenton’s home.

  Trenton and Jersey are playing their favorite game, Pin the Tail on the Cerebral Cortex on the colorful holograph of the brain that I’m always amazed to see floating in a corner of their living room.

  “Hi guys,” I say.

  Jersey glares at me. “Thanks, Molly, you just made me miss. I hit the thalmus!”

  “Sorry,” I say. “It could have been worse.”

  “Yeah, it could have been the frontal lobes,” she snaps.

  I turn to Trenton, who tallies his winning score and say, “I have an obsession with flour, butter, eggs, sugar, and chocolate.”

  “You always have an obsession with those things,” Jersey replies, rattling the dice. “It’s the way of all pastry.”

  “Want me to distill those ingredients and see if their chemical interactions reveal anything new,” Trenton asks wearily.

  “Would you? I really think you might find something significant.”

  “Nothing to lose,” Trenton says going into his laboratory and closing the door behind him.

  Jersey picks up a few darts and holds them in one hand while she continues rattling the dice with the other. “Do you want to play, Molly?”

  “I’m not feeling very cerebral today, but I will have a lemon water.”

  Jersey gets the water. I take a sip. She peers at me closely. She puts her arms around my waist. “You’re thinner!” she exclaims. “Wow! Much thinner!”

  In spite of the double-fudge brownie that I ate, I say, “As a matter of fact, I’ve lost close to a hundred pounds. You’re the only one who’s noticed. The twins are in their own world, and for the last year Cortland has traveled so much he’s barely home.”

  “You should be showing off, not hiding under those baggy old clothes.”

  “I guess I’m afraid that if I show my progress, I’ll gain it back.”

  Suddenly we hear knocking and banging, whirling and twirling coming from Trenton’s laboratory. Jersey puts her ear to the door. “Now I hear a lot of hissing. Sounds like he’s spraying himself with the latest WD. Did you know they were up to WD-4,000,000? He must be having a lot of trouble.”

  I pace back and forth, circle the room, then circle in the opposite direction. I’m drenched with perspiration.

  “Why don’t you soak in our new hot tub? It will relax you. This may take Trenton awhile.”

  We go into the bathroom. I’m surprised to see that there are shelves filled with sea-breeze bath salts, imported from Earth, bitter orange blossom neroli oil, imported from Venus, several products containing aloe vera, a cucumber cleansing lotion, Jojoba oil, Vitamin E oil, essence of young birch tree branches from a Ruby Spa Body Shop and more. Jersey runs the water, adds a generous amount of several products to the tub, hands me a fresh towel and leaves.

  As I undress and hang my clothes on a hook, I think Jersey may be cheap about food but she certainly isn’t cheap about her beauty products. I step into the warm water, breathe in the perfumed air, put my head back and close my eyes.

  “You’re right Jersey,” I call through the door. “Thi
s is wonderful.” The swirling jets of water are so soothing that I almost fall asleep. Suddenly, behind closed eyelids, I see a light. It glows brighter and brighter, stronger and stronger, then—a flash of lightning!

  My knees jerk toward my chest; my hands push me up. I pop from the tub like a bagel from a toaster.

  “Paprika! Paprika!” I yell, running naked from the bathroom. “Paprika! Paprika!”

  Seeing me dripping wet and naked, Jersey throws me another towel. I catch it and zap it around like a toga from Ruby’s spa.

  “I’ve got it. I’ve got it,” I pant, banging on Trenton’s door. “I know what those ingredients mean.”

  The door opens a crack. Trenton pokes his head through.

  “I saw a flash of lightning. The word éclair in French means ‘flash of lightning.’ Try this formula: E equals two éclairs times the speed of swallowing them in the light.”

  Trenton’s eyes sparkle. The door opens wider. “Interesting theory,” he says. His eyes spin. He taps his forehead. “But éclairs are off my reference chart.” He does some calculations. “You’ll have to help me with this one, Molly.”

  “We have to hurry, because when I did an update on the former cures, the scientists who worked on them discovered that the ingredients that worked best were organic, meaning all had short expiration dates. No preservatives.”

  We quickly mix a batter, make custard, melt the chocolate, heat the oven, and before you can say “a la carte,” voilà: éclairs. This time I do not wince as Trenton takes them back into his laboratory, pounds them into powders, and distills them into liquid supplements that can be injected intravenously. I’m so excited that I don’t even salivate.

  “This is it,” he says with the voice of an anchorman announcing that a storm is over. “This is definitely it! I tested it on ten generations of fruit flies and it worked every time!”

  Soon scientists everywhere, especially those who had been working on an antidote, confirm Trenton’s results and immediately send him congratulations. Some say he could be nominated for a four-flame Bunsen Burner prize. Jersey celebrates by contacting Groupon and getting a coupon for champagne supplements.