Chocolate Chocolate Moons (19 page)

Craig accompanies Rocket and Scheherazade to their seats. Scheherazade saunters behind Rocket and slides into the chair Craig pulls out for her.

Drew and Kandy linger at Sandy’s table. They avoid Sandy’s eyes and air-kiss Solaria. When they look up, they see CC enter wearing a short red number.

CC spots Drew and Kandy at Sandy’s table, waves, and joins them. Sandy makes more throat-clearing sounds. He gets up, air-kisses CC, and says how nice it is to see her again and how much he loved watching her on Nova Scotia’s program.

Craig returns to Sandy’s table, whisks them away, and seats them with Rocket and Scheherazade. Craig notices that Rocket has bags under his eyes and looks exhausted.

Everyone is excited to be at Gramercy Gardens because
Gourmet Galaxy’s
food critic, Alka Seltzer, reported that its polished sandstone walls, tiled floor, and stained glass ceiling are the perfect backdrop for wonderful dishes such as wild Martian buffalo stuffed with
foie gras
and mushrooms.

Sandy turns to those at his table. He has two big things to celebrate. The first is his success in getting a solar clock passed in the United Planetary Council. When there were so many worlds that had days of more than twenty-four hours and just as many that had days of less than twenty-four, the question
What time is it?
had been the number one question. Now, thanks to a solar clock, that debate is finally off the “Easy to Ask, Hard to Answer” list, making the new number one question (tested on senior citizens)
How are you?

The other accomplishment: standardized currencies. Mars used the solar, Earth used the neuro, Venus used shillings, Mercury used pounds, and so it went. Sandy proposed the starbuck because it was the only currency that made cents. His table celebrated with more champagne, more clinking glasses, and louder laughter.

Jersey and I are at Gramercy Gardens because they need extra staff. We stand in a corner of the kitchen and watch chefs turn food into art.

“I don’t know why the head waiter is letting you serve, Jersey, while I only get to refresh flowers and fill salt shakers. I got fitted for an eye cam, so I can take photos.”

“They said it was because I fit into the uniform and you don’t.”

I say nothing, but I know she’s right.

“Why do you think they serve such tiny portions on such huge plates? You need reading glasses to eat.”

“Tiny? They don’t look tiny to me. It’s called a tasting menu.”

“How come no one ever says they’re tasting pizza? Either you eat it or you don’t.”

“It’s about food aesthetics.”

“No, it’s about economics: skimpy portions, big price tags.”

Scheherazade eyes Drew. She removes a thin black leather scarf from her neck, pulls it slowly through her fist, and sets it in her lap.

I watch from a distance as Jersey approaches their table, pours water, and places a bread basket containing bite-size pesto toasts and small cheese biscuits on the table. She lowers the table’s background music, Philip Lip Gloss’s series of repetitive sounds, so they will not interfere with conversation. A bottle of Rock Crystal is placed next to Drew to chill. I click my eye cam to adjust a telephoto lens and take several shots, hoping they will be clear even though I’m so far away.

Drew says to Scheherazade, “Rocket tells me that you own Ali Baba Caves. I have a large art collection, including a Giacometti sculpture. I might consider storing it with you.”

Rocket knows Drew’s Giacometti is the fake he gave him and that Drew is just trying to impress Scheherazade. Then Scheherazade pats Rocket’s hand. “You just gave me a Giacometti, didn’t you sweetheart? I put it on my desk.”

Rocket’s mouth curls upward.

“I would like to see it,” Drew says, leaning closer to Scheherazade. “We should see how much alike they are.”

Kandy, not liking the direction of the conversation, asks, “Can I come?”

Drew, as though awakening from a trance, says, “What?”

Kandy lowers her eyes.

CC breaks a pregnant silence. “Carbon Copies Media would love to do a special on you, Scheherazade. Would you consider it?”

Scheherazade raises her glass to her lips, sips, and puts it down. She wipes her mouth with a crisp white napkin, leaving a dark red smear. “No,” she hisses.

“Can you hear what they’re saying, Jersey? Do they like the food?”

“No one mentioned the food. CC asked to interview Scheherazade.”

“What did she say?”

“Either yes or no. I couldn’t hear.”

After the honey-and-Grappa-marinated poached raspberries, after the Jupiter-chocolate layered cake, after the fig-and-balsamic ice cream, and after the poached-pear soufflé, Kandy and CC finish with double espressos. Rocket asks for a cup of hot water. When it arrives, he adds a packet of beige powder. Craig comes to their table and gives everyone a gold bag embossed with “Gramercy Gardens” in a decorative green script filled with chocolate bonbons and red-rock spices to take home.

Rocket gives his bag to Scheherazade and leaves in a hurry.

I clear their empty table and slide their spoons into my pocket so their DNA can be tested.

26

W
HEN
R
OCKET REACHES
Hernando’s, a hideaway hotel that never asks questions, he knocks three times and whispers low into the callbox. The door opens.

“You don’t look well, Number Nine,” Velma says from behind the front desk, using his code name. Rocket doesn’t say anything. Nor does he look at her long red hair barely covering her right breast as he usually does. She takes his left hand and scans the palm. “You’re freezing. Are you sure you’re all right?” She rubs his fingers. “Do you want me to call a doctor?”

“No doctors. Don’t trust ‘em. Just need to sleep.” He turns and walks down a hall.

Velma hears a thud. She runs in the direction of the sound. Rocket’s door is open. He’s on the floor of his room eyes closed and barely breathing.

Rocket is taken to a hospital. When he awakens, he smells hospital smells and gags. He pushes himself up and drinks some water. He hears a knock, followed by a
click.
Rocket slides back down, pulls up his sheet, and faces the wall. A doctor and two interns enter.

“We know you’re up, Mr. Packarod,” the doctor says, reading the blinking lights behind the bed.

“How long have I been here?” Rocket asks.

The doctor comes closer. Then he says, “You’ve been here a day. It was touch-and-go until we found the right medication. Fortunately you responded well and are out of danger, although you did some damage to your system. You’ve taken quite a lot of unapproved alternative food supplements, haven’t you?”

Rocket rolls back over and looks at the doctor. He fumbles with his sheet.

“You must be very careful about these so-called health foods. Lots of snake-oil salesmen out there.”

“Snake oil? Is snake oil back on the market?” he half jests. The doctor and his interns glare.

“You of all people should know how dangerous some of that stuff is, especially in untested combinations. We have to do a better job catching the guys who operate unregulated off-planet labs like Titan Drugs. Their products hit the market faster than quarks.” He moves closer to Rocket, pulls up his eyelid, and shines a light in his eye. “Get my drift, Mr. Packarod?” He clicks off his light and takes a step back. He pushes a button on his prescription screen and hands the resulting printout to Rocket.

“That medication will continue to reduce the poisons in your blood. Make sure you fill it, or those levels will rise again.” He turns to go, followed by the two interns, each of whom frowns the doctor’s frown and clicks his light on and off into Rocket’s eyes until he sees pinwheels.

Rocket crumples the prescription and tosses it into one of the three baskets that dance before his eyes. Then he calls Drew and tells him what happened.

“Well, are you going to fill that prescription?” Drew asks.

“How do I know what they prescribed won’t kill me? I made plenty of drugs in my day—and know every trick in and out of the book.” He sips water from a straw in his glass. He coughs and blows his nose. Finally he says, “Come and get me out of here before they hook me up to jumper cables.”

Jersey calls. “Come over,” she says. “Trenton wants to tell you what he found at Congress Drugs.”

Trenton greets me wearing a nifty blue shirt. There’s no question that good clothes, one of the few things Trenton splurges on, softens his unusual appearance.

Jersey closes a hall closet, where she just finished arranging cans of the lubricant WD from WD-40 through WD-40,000.

Trenton plops down on his favorite faded chair. “Remember that I told you four people, on four different days, took samples from Congress Drugs? Three took poisonous samples from the same batch of anti-flavonoids and one took a harmless substance. Well, I can trace the first sample of the poisonous anti-flavonoid, taken on July 6, to Decibel Point.”

“The same Decibel Point who invented Freedom Plan foods?”

“Yes,” says Trenton. “The same.”

“Who took the two other poisonous substances that week?” Jersey asks.

“Don’t know. Still working on it.”

“So why did you call me here?”

“Thought you would like to know who took the harmless substance a week later, on July 18.” Trenton cocks his head to one side. “Want to guess?”

“No, Trenton, just tell us,” Jersey says shifting from one foot to another. “Stop making this such a big drama.”

“The harmless sample, taken July 18, was taken by Drew Barron. The date of his visit matches it. It doesn’t match taking poisonous anti-flavonoids.”

Jersey’s voice drops in disappointment. “I was sure he was guilty.”

“But that doesn’t make him guilty. Drew must have been so rushed and nervous he grabbed the first thing he thought was the anti-flavonoid,” Trenton explains.

“And that’s what he probably gave to Rocket,” Jersey adds.

I wrinkle my brow and give a quizzical look. “But people were poisoned.”

“But not by what Drew Barron took,” Trenton says. “Who else had access?”

I say, “CC had access when she did that big interview with Sandy Andreas. She had time in the lab. I remember she told Nova Scotia that Sandy Andreas left her alone for a while in the lab and she talked to Decibel Point, who wasn’t happy with how Congress Drugs tested its products.”

Jersey and Trenton nod.

“If so,” I add, “that would mean the chocolate was poisoned before it arrived at the Candy Universe.”

Trenton agrees. “I thought of that too. But even if CC is the third person, there’s still a missing fourth sample.”

“Does Lamont think Drew should be arrested?” I ask.

“No. He thinks we should leave him alone and let him think he stole the poisonous anti-flavonoids. Mars Yard can still charge him for stealing something from Congress Drugs that didn’t belong to him. He’s no flight risk—not with his expensive lifestyle and beautiful girlfriend. Lamont thinks that Drew might lead us to Scheherazade. Drew’s Giacometti that Rocket switched is probably one of her fakes. And if it is, we can match it and similar art to auction houses and galleries that sell the stuff.”

“And Decibel Point?” I ask. “You just told us that he took some anti-flavonoids.”

“Lamont wants to wait and see. Thinks he may lead to drug cartels, unregulated off-planet labs, who knows what else.”