Lemon Curry?
© 2025 by Walter Reimer

Bernie Phlute © :iconeocostello:
Titles by :iconmarmelmm:
Music by Ferde Grofé
Suits by ‘Rick’ of Altoona

Thumbnail art by :iconrockbaker:

Part Six.

If Minkerton heard Dorpf, he let it slide.  He picked up two envelopes and reached across the desk to give them to the stork and the Boston terrier.  “I want you to read the enclosed briefing,” the mink said, “and your passports and tickets are also in the envelopes.”  He sat back.  “Since this is the first time you’ll be working together, Father O’Malley, Director Thurston and I will answer any questions you might have.”
“Okay, Chief,” Phlute said, and the two agents started reading.  Dorpf didn’t seem to blink as he read each page seemingly line by line, while Phlute read back and forth over each page.
Bernie looked up.  “’Chupacabras?’” he asked.  “I think I had them the one time I was in Houston.  They were tasty, but hold the guacamole, it makes me run to the john."
Minkerton and Thurston blinked, and the Irish setter, Father O’Malley, stepped forward.  “Agent Phlute,” he said with a soft brogue accenting his voice, “a chupacabra’s very like a vampire.”
The stork blinked rapidly at the setter, apparently not in Morse code, before saying, “Vampires?  Aren’t they at Ebbetts Field?”
O’Malley frowned.  “Those are umpires.”  He looked like he was already contemplating going to confession that night to seek absolution for what he was thinking.  “Vampires,” he said, enunciating clearly.
“That’s silly,” the stork said dismissively.  “Everyone knows there’s no such thing as vampires.”
Dorpf simply nodded, still reading.
“Despite your personal feelings on the matter, Agent Phlute,” Thurston said, “the Agency expects you to do your usual –“ he glanced at Minkerton  “- your usual job.”
“Oh, yeah, yeah, sure, sure,” Phlute replied.  “I’ll do a great job, Bob!  You’ll see!”  
Thurston gave Phlute a stern look.  As Operations Director, he expected to be addressed with a little more respect.  He turned to Dorpf.  “Agent Dorpf.”
“Yes, Sir?” the younger terrier asked, looking up from the briefing papers.
“Do you have any questions?” the wolf asked.  “This is your first field assignment.”
“It looks pretty straightforward, Sir,” the Boston terrier said.  “Just looking after a fellow’s daughter until she’s married.  But I’m looking forward to the mission,” and he smiled widely.
A little too widely; it looked like his smile extended almost unnaturally from one ear to the other.
“Er, yes, well good luck to you both,” Thurston said in an uneasy tone.
“I do have one question, Sir,” Dorpf said.
“Yes?”
“If I do well my first time out, can I not be near Room 2163 when I get back?”
Thurston raised a bushy eyebrow.  Room 2163 was the repository for the files of what many agents called the weirdest cases like the semi-legendary Snout in the Mailbox matter.  It was the only room in the building that had two dial-locks on the heavy steel door, with access restricted to Allan Minkerton IV, his father, and Father O’Malley.
Several senior agents joked that Bernie Phlute was kept in a box in the room and only released when he was needed.
Thurston glanced at O’Malley.  Dorpf had been observed at times facing the locked door while cresting and growling like a feral.  The wolf smiled and rested a reassuring paw on the terrier’s shoulder.  “I’m sure you’ll do well, and after this we’ll talk about assigning you to a field office.”
“Thanks, Sir!”  There was that smile again.
“All right,” Allan Minkerton IV said.  “Agents, you have your assignments, passports and tickets, and you’ll stop by Accounts to get per diem and a letter of credit for expenses.  The S.S. Oriente leaves from Pier 16 tomorrow at noon, so my advice to both of you is to get packed, get your affairs in order, and get a good night’s sleep.  Agent Dorpf, you’ll sign out a weapon and ammunition from Supply before you leave the building.  Agent Phlute?”
Bernie had been admiring his passport photograph.  He slammed the booklet closed and blinked at Minkerton.  “Yes?”
The mink gazed levelly at him.  “Do you have your pistol, Agent?”
“Pistol – oh!  Yeah!  Yeah, sure I got it right here – “  The stork dug into his suit jacket and hunted around before reaching into the other side.  “Ah!  Yesiree, I got it right here, Chief,” and he started to draw the firearm.
Minkerton raised a quick paw.  “Don’t draw it,” he said hastily.  “I just wanted to be sure you have it.  Right, you two, off you go, and good luck.”
“Thanks, Chief.”
“Thank you, Sir.”  The stork and the terrier got up and left the office.
As soon as the door closed Thurston gave Minkerton a wry look.  “Are you sure you’re making the right decision, Allan?” the wolf asked.
The mink said, “Phlute’s generally harmless, and Dorpf needed to get into the field sometime.”  He glanced at O’Malley.  “What do you think?”
The portly setter shrugged.  “The lad needed to get out, right enough.  As to what I’m thinking,” and he gave the other two men a smile, “I’ll keep to myself until after I attend Mass tonight.”
All three shared a chuckle.

***

The five-hundred-foot-long Cuba Mail Line liner Oriente sat alongside its company’s pier just before noon, its gray and white paint scheme gleaming in the sunlight as Jacob Dorpf stood near the head of the passenger gangway.  Beside him, one of the ship’s pursers was studiously gazing at his watch.  “We’re getting very close to departure, Sir,” the purser said.
“He’s supposed to be here,” the Boston terrier said, checking his own wristwatch with a worried expression.  He looked out at the dock and his ears went up.  “There he is!”
Phlute was almost running to the gangway, a suitcase in one paw and his ticket and passport in another.  He raced up the gangway, past Dorpf and the purser, and collided with the bulkhead to the general amusement of several passengers.
“Seventeen seconds to spare.”  After making the remark, the purser walked over to the prostrate stork.  “Ticket, Sir?”  The paw carrying the item rose, and the purser took it.  “All in order, Sir.  Your cabin’s on Deck Five, port.”
“Okay,” Phlute said dazedly.

***

“HUUUUUUURRRRRKKKKKKK!”
“Are you all right, Sir?” Dorpf asked as Bernie sent more of his breakfast over the port rail of the liner.
“C-Call me . . . Bernie,” the stork panted.
“Okay, Bernie.  I’m Jacob,” and the Boston terrier flinched backward as Bernie retched again.  “I move the pending question.”
“I . . . I’m okay.  I just get sea – seasick.”
“We haven’t left the dock yet.”
The ship’s whistle eclipsed the next series of sounds from Bernie.