Chocolate Chocolate Moons (18 page)

Rocket rises and looks down at me. “Good catch, sweetheart.”

I lower my head. “Excuse me.” I head for the ladies’ room.

CC glares at Rocket. She gets up and follows me.

“Didn’t everyone think that was a good catch?” Rocket says. “Hey, fella,” he calls to Cortland. “Would you like to join us when the girls come back from the ladies’ room?”

“No thanks,” Cortland answers.

I push the door to the ladies’ room open. CC is behind me. I hold it for her and she passes.

She turns and looks at me. “You know, you look very familiar. Have we met?”

“No, I don’t think so. I look like a lot of people.”

“Actually, you don’t. Most people are not as heavy as you. Everyone takes supplements and is much thinner. Did you ever live on Earth’s moon?”

“Briefly. Very briefly,” I say, closing a stall door behind me.

“Well, I never forget a face. I’m sure it will come to me.”

CC washes her hands, freshens her makeup, and leaves.

I open the stall door, wash my hands, and peer into the mirror. CC has left her towel on the side of the sink. I take it and jam it into my pocketbook. I saw on the news that she toured Congress Drugs a week before all the trouble at the Candy Universe started—maybe there’s a connection. Trenton can scan her biometrics from her towel when I get home.

I walk back to the table. CC waves at me. “I know I know you,” she says in a singsong voice. “Sooner or later I know I’m going to remember.”

Drew is so busy talking nonstop about Chelsea Clinton, the latest hot artist area in New Chicago, that he doesn’t look up.

Rocket, on the other hand, can’t resist looking and asking, “Get them out, baby?”

“Let’s go,” I say to Cortland.

Later, in their room, Craig says to CC, “Rocket and I were just brief acquaintances in college. He was always a character. Drew’s more interesting than I first thought. Amazing you knew him at Armstrong U. I really would love to visit him and see the Giacometti.”

“What did you think of Kandy?” asks CC. She watches Craig’s reflection in a large mirror. His eyes glow.

After a moment, Craig turns and faces CC, whose face twists downward. “What?” he says. And as though she didn’t hear, repeats louder. “What? Did I say something wrong?”

CC’s brow wrinkles. “No, nothing, but…” She points to the floating bed. “Tonight we’re moving the bed.”

24

S
ANDY
A
NDREAS WEARS
a tie the color of dried blood. It fits his mood. Every day he gets reports that off-planet unregulated labs, like Titan Drugs are planning to make generic versions of his products that will undercut him. Titan Labs and Rocket Packarod’s name appear in the same sentence so many times that he doesn’t have to draw lines to connect the dots.

Sandy pounds a table and shouts at Drew. “I thought you said that all the tests on our products were successful! I’m still getting cancellations! Sales are flat!”

Drew sweats and swallows. “But Congress Drugs did hundreds of blind tests.”

“Blind is the right word. I want answers. And I want answers NOW!”

Drew drags himself home and plops into his favorite chair, his back aching. He stays there a long time. Then he moves to his bed and stays there an even longer time. Eventually he gets up and goes back to the chair. If it weren’t for his daily dose of nutritional supplements and reliance on Freedom Plan foods that reduce his caloric cravings, he would binge-drink eggnog.

Kandy peers into a mirror; one hair is out of place. Another day ruined. “You know, Drew,” she pouts, “you’re always in a bad mood. You work so hard with pills that you’re becoming one. Why don’t we invite Craig Cashew and CC here to see that Jackie O sculpture? Craig said he’d love to see it.”

“Giacometti. There’s a big difference.”

“Whatever. Just stop being so grouchy! It’s bad for my complexion.”

A month later the market rallies. Drew’s bad mood lifts.

“Hey, Kandy, I have an idea. Let’s invite Craig and CC here for dinner.”

“That was my idea!”

“Well it’s mine now.”

“Phone call for you on line three, Mr. Cashew,” secretary Vanilla Extract says. “Name’s Rocket Packarod. He’s not on any list. Do you want to take the call?”

Craig’s stomach, which never rumbles, rumbles. “Now that Gramercy Gardens has opened, everyone wants a membership.” He sighs. “Put him through, visual off.”

Craig takes a deep breath. “Hello, Rocket. What can I do for you?”

“Well, that was direct. No ‘How are you?’? No ‘Great to see you at Nirgal Palace’? No ‘Thanks for the drinks and their best hors d’oeuvres’?”

“So what can I do for you?’ Craig repeats in a monotone.

“I thought since I’m your old friend, you would personally invite me to join Gramercy Gardens.”

“We were the briefest of college acquaintances,” Craig corrects. “Hardly ‘old friends.’ Besides, it’s not just up to me, Rocket. There’s a committee.”

“Yeah, yeah, there’s always a committee. Everyone knows that. But you’re the Culinary’s CEO.” Craig says nothing.

“By the way, if you’re still sore that Drew owns that Giacometti sculpture, I can get one wholesale.”

“I’m no longer interested in the Giacometti, Rocket. It’s probably a fake, anyway.”

“It may be a fake, but it’s a real fake. Scheherazade makes such good copies that some trade at higher prices than the original. She told me that she got high-priced lawyers who specialize in art tampering to lobby governments to expand the definition of art forgery by weaving the words
artistic
and
autistic
in a manner so obscure that no one can broach the subject without getting an expensive psychological evaluation from one of the art therapy clinics. She also pays plenty to keep the filibuster of ‘Is a copy of a copy of a copy still a copy?’ going strong in Congress. Some congressmen said they liked the argument so much that they would give her a discount.

Craig still says nothing.

“Look, old buddy, it would mean a lot to me to join Gramercy Gardens. I’m not getting younger. Time to upgrade the quality of my life. Time to hang with a better crowd.” Rocket pauses to gauge Craig’s reaction. “Bet you don’t think I know the difference between a fish knife, a steak knife, and getting knifed.”

Suddenly Craig jumps. “What was that? Was that the sound of a gun?”

“Gun? No, gum. I was just cracking some multivitamin, multimineral gum. You should sell stuff like that at your Flying Saucer Supermarket. I’ll get you the best price. Wanna think about it?”

“I’ll think about it.”

“That’s the spirit. Now, I don’t want to pull my last ace, but I gotta tell ya, I have a holo of the transaction you helped Scheherazade and me with when you transferred those glass beads off-planet back when we were college pals.”

Craig winces.

“Don’t worry; I won’t chew any gum at Gramercy Gardens. I wouldn’t
crack, crack
want to
crack, crack
embarrass such a good old friend. Let bygones be bygones; how about I send you a complimentary case of the gum to show my goodwill. Loosen up, classmate. Live long and prosper.”

CC and Craig are delighted by Drew’s invitation to come to his apartment for dinner and see the Giacometti.

Craig arrives first; CC follows a few moments later. Drew shakes Craig’s hand. CC gets an air-kiss. A hired waiter offers them a Plum Royal: prosecco with a dash of Jovian plum liqueur.

“A house specialty,” Drew says. They clink glasses.

“You’ve done so well at Congress Drugs,” CC says. She lowers her eyes and sips. “Sandy Andreas must be a tough guy to work for. When I toured the farms and Congress Drugs, I saw how everyone jumped when he entered.”

Drew gives her a long look. “We get along.” He turns to Craig, relieved not to talk any more about Sandy. “You’ve come a long way to see the Giacometti. Well, there it is.”

They walk to the gray marble table that the sculpture stands on. Craig peers closely. “As I said at Nirgal Palace, lots of fakes on the market. Have you had this independently appraised?”

“Not yet,” Drew lies. “No time.” He takes a ginger-infused lobster roll from a passing tray. Kandy, who has just finished dressing, joins them. Drew gives an approving look at her green jersey dress with a slashed neckline, pecks her cheek, and drapes his arm around her.

Then a bell rings and they all turn toward the sound. A hired chef in a white coat and high hat opens frosted-glass doors that lead to a low-lighted dining room. He gestures toward the room.

Everyone enters. Craig walks to three all-white paintings surrounded by soft neon frames that hang on the back wall. “What’s this triptych called?”

“Portraits of the Elusive.”

“Elusive of what?”

“A continuing process of self-definition.”

Craig studies them closely. “I see a lot of veiled aggression. I think I would understand them better in black.”

“They look like three white squares to me,” Kandy says. “But I like the frames.”

The table is set for four. Craig faces Kandy. Drew faces CC. A low row of cream-colored candles runs down the middle.

They dig their forks into a salad of frisée, goat cheese with a small sliced pickled peach, and crystallized wasabi horseradish that makes a sweet heat. This is followed by a rack of lamb with a brandy mint sauce that was aged in kegs floating within the rings of Saturn. The conversation is all small talk until Kandy pushes her hair behind one ear, exposing a blue-ice sapphire earring, looks at Craig, and says, “I hope the food at Gramercy Gardens is as good as this. Drew’s membership was just approved.”

Craig looks at everyone. He doesn’t answer Kandy’s question. He puts down his knife and fork and says, “Rocket called me. He wants to join Gramercy Gardens. I’ve told him it is a committee decision.”

There is silence. A waiter clears the main course and places balls of espresso gelato before them. The center is filled with hot fudge spiked with Kahlua and cinnamon. They wait for the waiter to leave the room. Then Craig looks at Drew. “If you brought him as your guest, it would take some pressure off me. I’m not sure how some of my board members would react if he came as my guest.”

Drew bristles but keeps his face neutral. He remembers that Rocket still has his Giacometti. He pokes at the gelato until the hot fudge seeps from the center and pools around it.

“I need the favor, and I won’t forget it.” Craig presses.

Drew wonders what Rocket could possibly have on Craig.

“Sure, Craig,” he nods, hoping he won’t regret it.

25

H
EADS TURN.
J
AWS
drop. Scheherazade stands next to Rocket and enters Gramercy Gardens. She is a tall woman with dark eyes and straight black hair that falls down her back and stops at her buttocks. Her black dress has more cutouts than fabric. Kandy Kane glowing on Drew’s arm in a white body-skimming cashmere-and-silk gown that has the feeling of intimate lingerie enters next.

Sandy Andreas, up front with friends in a corner banquette, sees them and chokes.

Craig Cashew, the evening’s host in a perfect white dinner jacket, rushes to his side. Sandy brushes him away, drinks some water, and stops coughing.