Joe Avery’s Early Cases
by Charles C. Cole
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Table of Contents parts 1, 2, 3, 4 |
No Weeding Needed
A majority of my clients at this point in my career were folklore exotics with nobody else to turn to. Most had a better grasp of English than many New York City cabbies. They also had cultural biases, sensitivities, historical baggage, and often looked (to paranoid snowflakes) like distant cousins to monsters from the Dark Ages.
Calendula, the shy, self-conscious bipedal guest sitting across from my desk claimed she was half-human and half-rosebush and, to prove it, she had a couple of dozen twisted “hairy” rootlets protruding per foot, pushing outward from her open-toed sandals, not to mention palm thorns, which I’d recently encountered.
When she’d arrived, Calendula had hesitated to take my hand, but I’d misread the signals and insisted: “Don’t be intimidated. Shaking’s just a part of the human tradition of showing we’re not out to hurt each other.” That’s when I felt her thorns up close.
“Sorry! I don’t often make physical contact with your type, for obvious reasons.”
“Lesson learned.”
“Detective Avery, Grandpapa would come here if he could, but he’s so tall and so big around that he’s really not sure how deep his roots must go to sustain and stabilize him, not to mention the fact that there are hundreds of suckers who are literally connected to him and would have their lives tragically disrupted.”
“We’re not here to make things worse,” I said, wincing from the twinges of semi-self-inflicted pain from the brief handshake I’d just insisted on. “If there’s a solution, I’ll find it.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“Tell me the situation, high-level.”
“Jack, a poor farming boy, traded his cow for magic beans. We believe he wasn’t paying attention, that he naively thought a handful of beans would somehow, miraculously, lead to a garden full of fruits and vegetables of all kinds, ripe and ready to harvest. No weeding necessary.
“Instead, he inherited a one-of-a-kind ‘stalk’ half the width and twice the height of the Washington Monument. When he didn’t find anything of practical interest after climbing to the top, he approached the city about turning Grandpapa into a certifiable tourist trap: build a wraparound staircase, set up a couple of viewing stands with coin-operated telescopes, add a gift shop with exclusive merchandise.”
“What’s the downside?” I asked, playing devil’s advocate.
“You can’t tell from looking, but Grandpapa is dying. It takes a lot of life out of you to get that big that fast. He thinks he has ten years tops, a fraction of that if a construction crew starts screwing heavy steel accessories through his already weakened bark. He wants to give the next generation, the suckers, time to get established. And he doesn’t want to be remembered as the scene of an avoidable front-page tragedy.”
“You’re asking me to stop the wheels of progress?”
“If anyone can.”
“What’s a win look like for you, Calendula?”
“Me? I’m just the messenger for my people. Because I can get around better than most of them, and I look more human than inhuman.”
“Is Grandpapa in pain?”
“I don’t think so.”
“When he eventually dies, won’t he collapse atop the suckers he cares so much about, those younglings growing around him now?”
“Probably. Unavoidably.”
“The city won’t want a tragedy: it doesn’t want to be sued. Can’t we just insist the construction include wraparound scaffolding-like reinforcement? And cables for structural integrity. So that when he does die, he won’t fall down? It’s not a pretty solution, but actually might sustain him when he gets old and frail as happens to us all. A percent of the visitors’ fees will go toward educating humans about the importance of exotic preservation.”
“Could it shorten his life?”
“Maybe. I’m not an expert. While preserving many of those around him. And creating, essentially, a foundation in his name that will keep the dialogue going between our two nations, hopefully, long after you and I are planted in the ground.”
“Why would anyone plant me in the ground? I’m half-human!” protested Calendula.
“Not you then. Me. It’s a human expression for being buried after death.”
“So, your solution to the problem is... the problem?”
“Yes, but with legally binding caveats, mutually agreed-upon safety measures, and an officially recognized liaison for the exotic community having a permanent say in your future.”
“Me?”
“Why not? You care, you’re articulate, and you look close enough to a full-blooded human to get through any closed door.”
“Okay.”
“Okay?” I asked. That was easy.
“But only with you at my side.”
“Me?” I asked, echoing my guest.
“As much as I look like a human and talk like a human, I’ll never think like one. Someone will say something important, and I’ll miss it or misunderstand and get offended. Humans have enough problems with exotics without me complicating things for everyone.”
“Then work for me,” I blurted. “You be my liaison to my exotic clients, so I don’t misunderstand and offend them, and I’ll be your liaison to the city. What do you say?”
“You’re a very clever human, very passionate and logical, talking me into an arrangement I didn’t expect. I’m glad you’re on my side.”
“I’ll take that as a yes,” I said. “Is it?”
“I think no matter what I say, you’ll take it as a yes,” said Calendula, smiling now. “I hope you can teach me how to be so persuasive. It might come in handy.”
“Calendula,” I said, “I’m very excited! You’re exactly who I was looking for, and I wasn’t even looking. You can meet the exotics when they arrive. Get a vibe on their mood. Cut through any half-truths. Put our guests at ease. I’ll even get you your own desk. Any last requests?”
“A Tupperware bin with water under my desk, to soak my roots; I wilt easily.”
“It’s a deal I said!” enthusiastically reaching forward to shake.
Calendula pulled her hand back with equal passion. “Can we raincheck the handshake?” she asked. “I’ll clip my thorns. Not just for you; I’ve been meaning to for a while. They get snagged on towels and clothes.”
“You said ‘raincheck’ just now!”
“Did I use it correctly?”
“Perfectly!” I said, and I was suddenly filled with optimism for a successful future.
Copyright © 2026 by Charles C. Cole
