Lemon Curry?
© 2025 by Walter Reimer

Bernie Phlute ©  eocostello
Titles by  marmelmm
Music by Ferde Grofé
Suits by ‘Rick’ of Altoona

Thumbnail art by  rockbaker

Part Eight.



The S.S. Oriente entered Havana harbor on schedule and was escorted to its dock. Mail and cargo were made ready to be offloaded, and on the docks similar loads were prepared to be loaded into the ship’s holds. Those passengers disembarking to enjoy Cuba’s climate and cuisine packed their bags, while the passengers who were going on to Mixteca looked forward to a day of sightseeing and shopping.

Getting down one gangway was causing a little delay in the fun.

“Easy now,” Dorpf said as the Boston terrier helped the stork make his way down to the dock. Bernie looked much the worse for wear and was gripping one railing, and his slow movements were causing a traffic jam on the gangway. Many of the passengers behind the pair were muttering and looking pointedly at their watches.

“Made it,” Phlute panted as he finally reached the bottom of the gangway. Still gripping the railing, his knees gave out, which had the benefit of moving him aside as he swung left and collapsed to the dock. Dorpf released the stork’s arm and moved away as the disembarking passengers made their way past him.

Bernie was muttering “Thank goodness” repeatedly as he kissed the dock, and after a few minutes of this he sat back on his haunches and squinted up at Dorpf. “Thanks, Jake,” he said.

“Jacob, please, Bernie.” The terrier helped him to his feet and asked, “Do you feel okay enough to get something to eat? You need to get your strength back.”

Bernie took a few deep breaths and swayed before straightening up to his full height. “Yeah,” he finally said. “Sounds like a good idea.”


***


“Sloppy Joes?” Bernie asked, looking up at the sign.

Dorpf shuffled his feet. “Well, you said you wanted American food . . . “

“Yeah, but any place that calls itself ‘sloppy’ can’t be good,” the senior agent declared. “Let’s find a decent restaurant.”

A short time later, a waiter showed the pair to seats in the restaurant of the Hotel Sevilla-Biltmore, the Boston terrier blinking at the relative opulence of the surroundings while the stork began looking at his menu. “Excuse me, Sir?” Dorpf asked.

“Call me Bernie,” the stork said. “We’re partners on this job. Of course, I’m senior and this is your first job as a Minkerton’s agent.”

Dorpf noted that several pairs of ears perked up among the other diners at the word ‘Minkerton’s,’ and perhaps a dozen people who had been eating or talking stopped doing so and directed their attention to the stork.

They continued to watch as the two ordered, received their meals and ate. The watchers all appeared to have been acquainted with boxing rings or hard manual labor for a good portion of their lives. Faces were scarred and heavy-featured.

Even the one woman who was dining alone.

Bernie Phlute sat back and covered his beak with a napkin, smothering a contented belch. “Ah! That hit the spot. Waiter!” he called out, beckoning to the man.

From the corner of his left eye, Dorpf saw one diner, a man, shift his grasp on his steak knife.

The waiter came over and Phlute said, “The check, my good man,” and as the waiter walked away Bernie said, “You didn’t want any dessert, did you Jake?”

“Jacob,” Dorpf said absently.

The check came and was duly paid, Bernie clucking about the amount of the bill. The pair got up from their table and left the restaurant. They weren’t followed.

There was a good breeze coming in from the sea that moderated the afternoon heat, and the two agents walked the city’s waterfront. “Feeling better?” Dorpf asked.

“A lot better,” Bernie said, patting his stomach. “Nothing like a good meal to brighten your outlook. I’ve eaten all over the place, but that was the best one so far. My last mission, I was on this train, see, and the food was great, but there was this annoying fox – from, um, Rain Island, yeah, that’s where he was from.” He fell silent and walked on for a moment. “Sort of took the pleasure out of the train trip.”

Dorpf nodded as he walked along. “I’m glad I have a senior agent to learn from,” he remarked.

“Well, Jacob,” and a feathered paw fell on the terrier’s shoulder, “I’m glad I’m able to help you, you know, stretch your wings and leave the nest, even though you’re not avian like me – no offense,” Phlute added hastily. Dorpf nodded companionably and they continued to walk.

Music made the terrier’s ears twitch upward and Phlute’s neck feathers ruffled slightly, and the two went to investigate, ending up with a small crowd of tourists as they watched a feline wearing a shirt and trousers industriously cranking a hurdy-gurdy while a feral monkey in an embroidered vest and a fez capered about. At times the monkey would pause to accept a coin from a tourist, doff his fez, and scamper up his owner to deposit the coin into the man’s breast pocket. The monkey would perform similar tricks, to applause and more coins.

“That’s cute,” Phlute said.

Dorpf nodded. “It reminds me of this freak show that came through my town years ago.”

“Yeah?”

“The freak show had two feral Siamese elephants.”

“They were from Siam? How can you tell?”

The terrier shook his head. “I don’t know, but they were Siamese elephants – they were joined at the trunk, one end to the other.”

Heads turned as Dorpf continued, “Their trainer, he was canine, and he’d have them rear up on their back legs with their trunks stretched out,” and he pantomimed stretching a rope, “and then he’d have a little feral monkey come out and dance on their trunks.”

The music faltered and died away as all the tourists and the hurdy-gurdy player gave their attention to Dorpf. “I felt real sorry for those two elephants, because they couldn’t trumpet like normal elephants. One would sneeze and the other’s eyes would get really big and his ears would flap.” He paused and blinked.

The little feral monkey was staring up at him, his paws on his hips. The creature turned toward his owner with an expression that seemed to say, “Is that little asshole done yet?”

A small kitten wearing a grubby undershirt, shorts and worn sneakers walked up to the stork and the canine. “Yankee go home,” he declared before walking off as the group of tourists returned their attention to the hurdy-gurdy and the performing monkey.

“Are you hungry?” Phlute suddenly asked. “I’m hungry. Let’s go get something to eat,” and the pair strolled off.


***


“What?” the stork asked, looking up from his dinner.

“It’s after sundown,” the Boston terrier pointed out. “We should really get back on the ship.”

Bernie shuddered. “Do we have to?”

“If we want to get to Mixteca, yes.” Jacob smiled and patted one pocket. “I brought your seasick remedy.”

The stork cocked an eye at him, thinking it over before nodding. “Makes sense. Were you a Boy Scout?”

“Not after the fishing trip.” Jacob took the small bottle of pills from his suit jacket and offered it to Phlute, who took one and drained the glass holding his Cuba Libre.


***


“Come on, Sir,” Dorpf said as he tugged at the stork’s arm.

“Donwanna,” Phlute half-slurred, trying to dig his heels in on the dock.

Perhaps taking a remedy containing scopalomine and washing it down with an alcoholic drink had not been a good idea.

The stork had been fairly cooperative until the side of the S.S. Oriente loomed up in front of him and the pair had reached the foot of the gangway.

The Boston terrier switched his position and began pushing the stork toward the gangway. Sensing victory, Dorpf backed off and started to run toward Phlute, intent on propelling the senior agent up the ramp and onto the ship.

He had almost reached Bernie when the stork suddenly lurched to the right. Dorpf’s momentum took him past the stork and over the side of the dock. There was a momentary pause, followed by a splash.

“¡Se cayó al ah-gua!” A small kitten walking along with his father exclaimed.

The older feline ruffled his son’s headfur. “No sabemos qué haríamos sin él.”




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