I'm struggling with 17 across when he flutters into the office. Cherubic, cute, chubby . . . all the "C" words. He hovers above the client chair, then plops into it.

"Six letter word for 'connundrum?'" I ask.

"Mr. McCue," he pipes, "You have to help me."

"Too many letters," I say. I drop the pen. "So . . . got pants?" I look at the naked demigod across from me. Call me old fashioned but I like my clients clothed--my male clients, anyway.

"My arrows won't work," he wails, ignoring me and shoving his bow and quiver across my desk.

I pick up the bow, grab an arrow, shoot across my office, break a lamp.

"Seems OK to me," I say, "You owe me ten bucks for the lamp."

"That's not the problem. Nobody falls in love when I shoot them. They just pull out the arrow and bleed!"

I ponder. I'm good at that. Finally: "When did you first notice this?"

"Yesterday. I was working the museum. A concert was in progress. I zapped a meter maid on her lunch break."

"Nothin', huh?"

"She pulled her nine and shot back! Next thing I know she's calling for backup and a SWAT team is surrounding the place."

"How'd you get away?"

"I flew into a Boticelli exhibit, but that's not important. The meter maid should have fallen in love with the first guy she saw after I shot her. Instead, she . . ."

"I get it, I get it," I say. "Any other incidents?"

"About twenty or thirty of them! Lovers in the park! Couples on the beach! Minks in a breeding colony . . ."

"You're kidding."

"Wish I were. Look!" He shows me a row of neat little puncture wounds in his pudgy arm. "That's where the male got me." He starts to stand. "You wanna see where the female . . ."

I stop him--quickly. "Let's come at this from another direction. When's the last time your arrows worked?"

He pauses. Thinks. Counts on his fingers. "Thursday. Last week. Shot a gal in the Blushing Ogre."

"The bar on Poe and Lovecraft?"

"Yeah. I know the arrow worked 'cause she started kissing every guy that came in the place." He chuckles. "She even gave me a hug and a kiss--and that doesn't happen often."

A tickle.

"This gal," I muse. "What's she look like?"

He tells me. Tickle gets stronger.

"Come back tomorrow," I say. "I might have an answer for you. No. Leave the bow and arrows."

"But can't you . . ."

"Tomorrow," I say, pointing to the door. "Flutter back then."

It's tomorrow and Cupie-baby is back in my client's chair. Can't say I'm any more fond of his mode of undress.

"Got a special at the Mall," I hint. "Blue jeans: Buy one, get one free." He's not listening.

"What about my arrows?"

I slide the quiver and bow across the desk. "Here. Try not to lose them again."

He looks at them. He's dubious. "These are mine?" he asks.

I nod.

"They look the same as the ones I gave you yesterday."

"How about that?"

"Are you sure . . ."

I stop him. Wave at the door. "Try them if you don't believe me. Go shoot somebody." I love working as a P. I. in the Seven Counties. You get to say stuff like that to a client.

Ten minutes later he's back. "They work!" he says. "Shot a doctor just outside the building. She fell in love with a lawyer who's suing her for malpractice. He gave her a summons; she gave him a kiss."

"More than I needed to know."

"But how," he says, settling into the client chair again, "Did you get them back so quickly? Where were they? Who . . ."

I hold up my hand to stop him. "You told me where to find them yesterday."

"I did?"

"After you left, I went over to the Ogre. Asked around a bit. Seems you’re a regular, there . . ."

"I don't know about a 'regular,'" he quibbles.

"The barkeep tells me, " I say, ignoring him. "That, after you have a few, you shoot that little toy of yours quite a bit."

"Well, so what?" he says. "I'm spreading love, in case you've forgotten. It's the most valuable, precious . . ."

"Exactly," I say, leaning toward him. "You think so. I think so. Kiki the Switch thought so."

"Who?"

"Kiki the Switch--Treegreen's only crossdressing thief. He's been setting you up ever since he saw you shoot a dryad in the Ogre. He figured your arrows had to be valuable when she kissed a lumberjack."

"I don't remem . . ."

"He made a copy of your quiver and your arrows. Hid them under one of those long skirts he wears and waited for his chance. You shot him. He hugged you. He switched your quiver for his."

"How did he do . . ."

"That's one of the reasons they call him Kiki the Switch. Guess the other."

"But," he said, "He should have fallen in love! He should have fallen in love so deeply he wouldn't have been able to steal anything."

"You use different arrows for guys and gals, don't you?"

He nods, realization dawning. "And I shot him with an arrow for a gal."

"Kiki crossdresses because it makes him a better thief; not because he's . . . you know." I hand him my bill.

"Sorry," he says, fluttering up. "Can't pay you."

"What?" I open my desk drawer.

He's smiling. "One of the reasons I don't wear pants: no pockets, no wallet, no money."

"Better find a way, chubby," I reach into my desk.

"What are you going to do, Mr. McCue? Wave a gun at me? I'm the God of Love. You can't do anyth . . ." But I've got the gizmus out of my desk now and he shuts up fast.

"But," he stammers, "You gave me the quiver back."

"I gave you a quiver back; a fake one. This," I lay it on my desk, "Is the real one. You get it when my fee is in my bank account."

"The lawyer . . . the doctor . . ."

"If you look at the bill, you'll see their fee built in. I never trust a guy with no pants so I hired a couple of actors. I figured you'd want to test the arrows as soon as possible, and I knew you'd figure the arrows had to be working if you zapped a doctor to smooch a lawyer."

"But the arrow didn't hurt . . ."

"Arrow-proof vest, guy. I also figured you'd shoot right for the heart."

"You took a terrible risk . . ."

"Not me," I shrugged, "The actors. That's why their fee is so high." I'm still holding the bill toward him. He snatches it.

"Will you take a check?" Through gritted treeth; not very Cupid-like at all.

"Cash or wire transfer, pal," I say.

"You'll have it tomorrow," he says and flutters out. Door slams; I pick up the phone.

"Treegreen Pharmacy?" I say when they answer, "You got the anti-infatuant I ordered? Good. Get it over here this afternoon." I hang up. Call me paranoid, but I can't help but worry. Last thing I need is to smile and kiss a pig . . . or worse.