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 Ten.


It was sometime before midnight when the inevitable result of Bernie Phlute’s first exposure to Shrimp Diablo began to make itself felt.

Jacob Dorpf stirred and rolled over as two feet thumped to the floor of the train beside his lower berth, followed by the sounds of a mad dash out of the compartment and down the aisle to the train car’s sole bathroom. The Boston terrier’s ears twitched at a moan accompanied by liquid sounds and followed by grunts and hoarse breathing.

The junior agent rolled over and went back to sleep. Shortly afterward, there was the sound of staggering footsteps, and Dorpf stirred as Phlute climbed back into bed again.

Only to repeat the rapid dash to the restroom perhaps an hour later.

The train from Veracruz to Mixteca City had seven scheduled stops along its route. Passengers entering or leaving the car would gasp and make assorted disgusted sounds along with muttered imprecations in Spanish as the dyspeptic stork’s condition continued at random intervals throughout the nearly fourteen-hour long trip.

The train stopped at San Lorenzo for breakfast. While Phlute remained in bed clutching his stomach, his partner stepped off the train and bought something light to give the stork.

“Huh? Wha?” Bernie said, blinking down at the terrier from his upper bunk.

“I got you something to eat,” Jacob said.

“Eat?”

“Yes.”

“What?” the stork asked.

“Oh! Um, an egg sandwich and some milk.”

“An egg sandwich? You think I’m some sort of cannibal or something?”

“No. But it’s all they had that wasn’t spicy.”

A pause, followed by the stork grunting as he levered himself into a seated position on the bed. “Thanks, Jacob.” He bit into the sandwich, smiled at its bland taste, and washed the mouthful down with a swig of milk. “This reminds me of my last assignment.”

“Really?” the terrier asked, his ears hiking slightly to show his eagerness to learn from a senior agent. “The sandwich?”

“Huh? No.”

“The, um . . . “

The stork shuddered. “No.”

“Oh! The train!”

Phlute nodded. “Yup, yup, yup . . . had to take a train from the Sea Bear Republic up to Tacoma last year.” He tapped the side of his beak. “Had a lady from the Tsarist Embassy there who was defective, so I was assigned to escort her to American territory – what?”

“Don’t you mean ‘defecting,’ not ‘defective?’” Dorpf asked quizzically.

“She had to have something wrong with her,” Phlute mused, taking another bite of his sandwich. “That stupid Rain Island fox managed to talk her into going with him. Still don’t know how, but it had to have been a fox thing.” He shrugged and sipped at his milk. “I think she must have been pretty dumb herself, to go to Rain Island instead of America.”

Dorpf nodded. “Are you feeling better?”

Bernie had finished the sandwich and was industriously licking his fingers clean, and he gave the Boston terrier a surprised look at the question. “Huh? Oh! Yeah, I’m feeling better, thanks Jacob.” He suddenly winced, one paw grabbing his stomach as a loud and pronounced gurgling sound came from inside him. He waited, but there was no repeat sound, and the stork relaxed slightly. “How many more stops before we get there?”

“Just one, according to the schedule,” Dorpf replied. “Texcoco. Train’s on time, as far as I can tell.”

“Okay. Could you, um, wake me up when we get there?” Bernie asked. “I want to get some rest. Bad night, you see.”

The Boston terrier nodded. “Sure,” and he left the compartment as the train’s whistle blew. A few moments later, it started moving again.

Dorpf took a seat in one of the coach cars, ears swiveling at the varied conversations. The scant amount of research he’d done on the trip from New York had told him that Mixtecans spoke mainly Spanish, with some native Aztec (also known as Nahuatl) mixed in. Since they were heading to the capital, the chances of meeting someone who spoke English would increase.

“Good morning!”

The terrier blinked and looked up to see a short young canine woman with a slight build looking at him. She was wearing a skirt and blouse; her fur was medium brown and wavy, as was her lustrous black headfur. Her eyes were a warm brown, and she had a small suitcase in her paws. “Oh, hello,” Dorpf said.

“Is this seat taken?” she asked, pointing at the place on the bench beside him.

“Huh?” He glanced at where she was pointing, tipped his head and squinted, and got to his feet. “Please have a seat,” he said courteously, remembering to take his hat off as she moved past him, stowed her suitcase under the bench and sat. He sat down beside her, feeling a little self-conscious.

“Are you from the North?”

“Huh?” he asked.

She smiled. “The United States?” she prompted.

“Oh! Yes, I’m from New York,” Dorpf said. He doffed his hat again. “Jacob Dorpf,” he said, offering his paw.

“Pleased to meet you, Jacob,” the Chihuahua-Dachshund mix said, taking his paw and shaking it. “I’m Julia Garcia. I teach high school in Mixteca City.” Her English had an accent to it. “What brings you here?”

“Hm? Oh! I’m a detective.”

“That’s very interesting,” Julia said. “Police?”

“No no, private company.”

“Minkerton’s?”

Dorpf’s ears hiked up in surprise. “You’ve heard of it?”

Her muzzle was longer than his, and she chuckled. “Everyone’s heard of Minkerton’s. Usually through cheap novels and magazine serials, but there’s got to be some truth to the stories, right?”

“I guess so. I’ve only been on the job for about a year now.” He glanced down at his hat, firmly grasped in his paws. “Um . . . you’re very pretty,” and his ears went straight down at the words.

Julia chuckled. “Flatterer. I do look a little different, though. My grandfather was German.” At his sudden questioning look she added, “Grandfather moved from Bavaria to Texas, and then came here.”

“Where he met your, um, grandmother?”

“Exactly.” She grinned. “So, what brings you down here?”

Jacob considered the question. It wasn’t a secret, but then the privacy of the client had to be respected. “My partner and I are here to provide some security.”

“Sounds dangerous.”

The Boston terrier shrugged. “I don’t think it will be.” He met her eyes, glanced away. “You say you teach high school?”

“Yes, I do,” and the two made conversation as the train traveled the twenty-five miles to the city’s main train station.




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