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 Nineteen.



Enrique explained himself quickly, concluding with, “The Professor has engaged two agents from the Minkerton’s, from the United States. One seems skeptical, and I confess that I am as well. Still, I would do anything to keep my beloved Diana safe until the danger has passed.”

The masked fur’s expression was, of course, unreadable. When he spoke, it was a deep rumble. “So you wish me to help protect your young woman from these chupacabras?”

“Yes, Sir,” the goat said earnestly. “I do not expect you to believe – “

“But I do.” Enrique’s ears perked as El Héroe Popular said, “I have encountered creatures like this before, in my travels around Mixteca. They are evil, and must be stopped before whatever their nefarious plan is can come to fruition.” He nodded. “I will help you.”


***


As the sun began to rise, the stork and the Boston terrier made their weary way to the guesthouse where, to their surprise, trays containing breakfast and a coffee service were waiting for them. They had completed their meal and were sipping at their second cups of coffee when someone knocked on the door.

Dorpf got up and answered the door, stepping back as Professor Ortiz came in. The goat asked, “All went well last night, I trust gentlemen?”

“Yessiree,” Phlute replied. “We’ll be setting up watches for tonight and the rest of the time we’re here. For right now, we’re going to need more batteries for the flashlights your driver gave us.”

“Ah!” The goat nodded approvingly. “There is a shop nearby, within walking distance. I shall have Jackson provide you with the address and directions.”

“Great,” and the stork yawned. “Right now, though – thanks for the grub – right now we’re going to get some shut-eye.”

“Of course,” their host said. “I’ll have the maid come in to get the trays. I will pray that nothing happens for the rest of your assignment.” He let himself out, closing the door behind him.

Dorpf yawned and said, “I’m going to get a shower, and some sleep. How about – “ He stopped speaking when he saw Phlute slumped over in his seat, snoring softly. The terrier nodded and tiptoed out of the guesthouse’s small living room and into the bedroom.

It was nearly one in the afternoon when the two detectives walked out of the Ortiz estate. Phlute had a sheet of paper in one paw containing the address and directions to the nearest store.

“Do you think we’re lost?” Dorpf asked an hour later as the pair paused outside a church. The map had been clear, but so far he and the stork had seen several houses, a police station and the church that now loomed over them.

“Nah,” Phlute said dismissively. He held the map out at arm’s length, squinted at it, and then turned the map upside down. “I . . . I suppose we could ask someone,” he finally ventured.

The priest in the church directed them to the police station, where one officer drew another map for them. This new map led them straight to a market less than a mile from the Ortiz residence.

A little bell tinkled as the two Minkerton’s agents entered the store and walked up to the counter where a diminutive Chihuahua stood talking with a taller canine dressed in a white cotton shirt and tan trousers. “Excuse me,” Phlute said. “Do you have any batteries?”

The Chihuahua blinked up at the taller stork and glanced at the other canine, who said, “El yanqui tonto quiere saber si tienes alguna batería.”

“Ah!” the short store clerk said, and he waved towards a display of batteries.

Dorpf said, “Gracias,” and walked over to the display to sort out what sizes were available.

Phlute eyed the canine. “Thanks a – say, aren’t you Chinese?”

The canine’s eyes narrowed. “Why?” His English had an odd accent, part Chinese and part Spanish.

“I know a guy in New York, runs a restaurant.”

“So you think we all look alike?”

“What? No.”

The canine gave him another suspicious look. “Good. You look like a fart smeller.”

“You mean a smart feller,” Phlute said.

“Yeah, keep telling yourself that,” the canine muttered.

“Do you work here?” the stork asked.

“Here? Me? Nah, this is Jaime’s shop. “I work at the laundry around the block – “ he raised an admonitory finger as Phlute opened his beak. “Don’t.”

“Okay. What’s your name?”

“Sy.”

“Sy?”

“Si.”

“That’s not a Chinese name.”

“And aren’t you a keen observer,” Sy said sarcastically. “I was born up in North Dakota. Me and my sister went to a reservation school, and we couldn’t get out of America fast enough.” Sy’s tail swished. “She helps me run the laundry.”

“What’s her name?”

“Sue.”

“Sue? And you’re Sy?”

“Si.”

“North Dakota, huh? What reservation?”

“Sioux.”

“Sioux?”

“Sioux.”

“So Sy and Sue from the Sioux.” The canine nodded, and Phlute shook his head while Dorpf found the types of batteries needed for the flashlights they had been using. “And Sue helps you.”

“Si. She sews.”

“Sue sews?”

“Si.” There was a brief bell in the background as the Chihuahua rang up the purchase and Dorpf paid the bill.

“Sue Sioux sews.”

“Si.”

“Bernie?” Dorpf asked.

The stork suddenly shook all over, his neck feathers fluffing. “Huh? What? What, Jacob?”

“I have the batteries.”

“Oh? Oh! Good, great.” Phlute eyed Sy. “Good to meet you.”

“Uh huh.” The stork and the Boston terrier began to leave and Sy called out, “Hey!”

“What?” Bernie asked.

“If you see Trotsky, tell him he still owes me for those shirts,” the canine said, “and if he doesn’t pay up I’ll put extra starch in his underwear.”

Phlute blinked. “Trotsky’s here? In Mixteca?”

Sy shrugged. “Why not?”




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