Joe Avery
by Charles C. Cole
Sometimes reason and logic are the best tools. After a small-time detective assists a supernatural client, big-city faery folk line up at his door. Everyone is watching, including the highest authorities from both worlds.
Chapter 10: Joe Avery Meets Cupid
For the sake of discretion, the client appeared at my apartment door in the early evening. I had never offered such measures before, but he was a celebrity of the highest order.
He showed up in disguise: dressed in a khaki uniform, delivering a flower arrangement.
I let him in, quickly closing the door behind him.
Cupid in person.
“I don’t understand,” I began. “Your message to my receptionist was vague and muddled, to say the least. I help clients find things. What exactly did you lose?”
“Must I say it? My mojo, Detective. There. Happy?”
“You’ve lost the ability to make people fall in love?”
“Not exactly.”
“That’s your superpower.”
“True, I can still start the fireworks, often with a bang. New lovers obsess. They skip sleep and meals. It’s really quite entertaining: the mania of it all. But it doesn’t last like it used to. Two weeks later, tops, they’re into someone else or worried about the next tropical storm or political headline.
“It’s killing me! I’ve never had these problems before. I don’t know if I’m doing something wrong or if someone’s out there on my heels, undoing my work as soon as I’m out of sight. I need answers. If it’s me, so be it. I’ll stop. I’ll retire. I’ve had a good run. Falling in love will never be the same, but I gave it my best.”
“Let’s not plan on making any hasty changes,” I said, always good advice.
“What do we do?” asked Cupid.
“You do what you’ve always done, and I’ll stand back and watch what transpires. If the new lovers are as distracted as you make it sound, they’ll never notice me. If there’s another force at play, another demi-god disentangling their two hearts, we’ll see that as well.”
“It sounds so simple. I should have come to you sooner.”
“You’ve been making humans fall in love for hundreds of years. Was it ever complicated?”
“Never. Your kind practically swan-dives into the thrill. The more preposterous, the better. You daydream about it. I just take advantage of circumstances: spritz the air with a generous dose of pheromones, add a little innuendo, the briefest touch, with intimate eye contact. And, ladies and gentlemen, we have a genuine romantic conflagration!”
* * *
We met at the park the next morning. Cupid had a table and two chairs set up for a chess match. “It’s all about the game,” he said. Before I could sit, we heard approaching hooting and cheering.
A faery the size of my hand, whom I knew from a prior case, was chasing panicked bumblebees in a training exercise similar to tag. She was good — until she followed a bee into a bush and tumbled out the other side directly into the open window of a snack truck!
“Hey! Out of my ice cream!” came a male voice.
The window slammed shut. The truck rocked. We heard grunts and groans. The side door opened. The seller had ice cream all over both forearms, but he managed to hold onto the faery by an ankle.
“Get your hands off me!” screamed my former client. “I have rights! I hate human men!”
He ignored her, which bothered me. Then he stepped into a fountain the kids loved, let her go and rinsed himself off. She hovered nearby, pouting, indignant, with her arms crossed, but eventually joined him, albeit more delicately.
“That’s the start,” said Cupid.
We returned the next few days. They had made amends. They spent hours quietly talking. I lost every game of chess. “Looks like you still have it,” I said.
Cupid, rather than being smug about his unlikely success, was quiet, observational, looking for indications of tattered magic. We didn’t have long to wait.
We arrived late. The human was throwing out big tubs of ice cream, tossing them in the general directions of a large trash receptacle.
“Problem?” I asked.
“They don’t taste right. Nothing tastes right. I must have messed up. It’s so stupid!”
“Where’s the she-faery? You two made a great team.”
“She’s better off with her own kind. She was beautiful, smart, and I’m just a klutz.”
Back at our chess game, I whispered to Cupid: “Do you do that often, mix humans and faery folk?”
“You think I shouldn’t?”
“I was just wondering if the same thing happens with your human-human connections.”
“Humans have practically given up on love. What would be the point?”
“Maybe you’re being overambitious. I think humans and faery folk are still getting used to each other.”
“No time like the present.”
“I love faery folk. I wouldn’t have my business without them. I’d rather hang out with them than humans. My rosebush receptionist is the best thing to ever happen to me. But I don’t think I’m ready to have one for a roommate. Do you think the bee the faery was chasing knew it was just a game? Or was there just enough fear and distrust to keep the bee guessing?”
“The good news is I haven’t lost my mojo.”
“As volatile a party as you throw, I think the world could do with more of your mojo, to jumpstart relationships, build connections. You can never have too much love...”
“But?”
“Humans are excellent at struggling, doubting, competing, doing. Faery folk are amazing at expressing themselves without guile or filters, at being. The reason we get along as well as we have is that we give each other elbow room. We respect each other’s differences.”
“You’re bringing me down, Detective.”
“When it works out, you’ve got the best job in the world. Even when it doesn’t work out, in the early stages, you see hope that the rest of us are blind to. Keep doing what you’re doing and, maybe, eventually we’ll catch up.”
“What about you, Joe? You want more love in your life? I could make that happen.”
“I’m too busy, but thanks,” I said. It felt like the truth, but maybe I was exaggerating a little.
Copyright © 2022 by Charles C. Cole
