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 Five.

The white-coated feline supervising the dessert display sighed and glowered at the young terrier.  “Look, Jacob, no one’s making you eat it.  Get something else from the table or move on,” he said in an aggravated tone.  He pointed.  “Look, there’s banana pudding.”
Jacob shuddered, and the feline rolled his eyes.  Finally, the canine pointedly looked away from the array of gelatin desserts and plucked a small plate bearing a slice of Boston cream pie from the display before moving off to a table.
The line resumed its movement and when Bernie reached the dessert table he asked the attendant, “What’s eating him?”  The stork dithered for a moment before grabbing a slice of angel food cake with fresh berries to go with the rest of his meal.
The attendant shrugged.  “He’s not a bad kid,” he said.  “Just acts funny now and then, like when we serve Jell-o.”
“Huh.  Takes all kinds,” and Bernie took his tray to a table that had a vacant chair, sat, and began to eat his lunch.
The food was as good as he remembered, and he kept an eye on the wall clock as he dawdled over dessert.  While he enjoyed the cake, he started schooling his expression into a stern, professional look as befitted a veteran Minkerton’s agent.  By the time he turned his tray in to be washed, he was ready.
“Excuse me,” one young woman asked him as he began to stride out of the cafeteria.
“Yes?” Bernie asked.
“Are you all right?” the woman asked.  “You look, well . . . “
“Professional?”
She shook her head.  “You look like you have gas,” and she hurried off before he could say anything.  Bernie shrugged and headed for the elevators.
One car opened its doors when he pressed the button, and he stepped in and hit the button for the seventeenth floor as the young canine he’d seen in the cafeteria bustled in.  The doors closed and the elevator began to ascend.
Bernie tapped one foot as the car rose, while the canine stared fixedly at a corner.  “Hi,” the stork said.
The canine gave a little start and turned.  The fellow’s height and appearance made the stork guess he was a Boston terrier.  His eyes were a little far apart and were pointing in odd directions.  “Hello,” the canine said.  “I haven’t seen you around here.”
“I’ve been up at the academy,” the stork said.  He stuck out a paw.  “Bernie Phlute.”
The terrier took the offered paw.  “Jacob Dorpf.”
“You’re pretty young-looking,” Bernie said after they had shaken paws.
Dorpf gave a jerky nod.  “Yeah, been with the agency about two years.  You?”
The stork drew himself up, the top of his head grazing the top of the elevator car.  “I’m a senior agent.  Been with Minkerton’s over twenty years.”
"Over twenty years?" Dorpf echoed, whistling. "You must have been in a lot of close scrapes."
"Yeah," Phlute replied modestly. "I've had my share. I guess I have a guardian angel sometimes."
The Boston Terrier turned his head to the right, tipped his head to the left, and looked at Phlute past his nose with his right eye, his left eye firmly closed. "Yes, you do," he remarked after straightening up.
“I’m headed up to see the Boss himself,” Bernie said.
“Me too,” Jacob said.  “I hope I’ll get an assignment.  There’s only so much filing a kid can do, you know?  And the further I am from Room 2163, the better,” he muttered half to himself as the car continued to go up.
A quarter horse mare seated at her desk looked up as the elevator opened and the stork and the Boston terrier stepped out.  “Agent Phlute, Agent Dorpf,” Maureen said.  “Good afternoon.”
“Hello, Ma’am,” Jacob said courteously.
“Hi, Maureen,” Bernie said.
“You two are a little early,” Maureen said.  “I’ll see if Mr. Minkerton wishes to see you.”  Bernie adjusted his tie as she reached over and touched her intercom.  “Mr. Minkerton?”
“Yes?”  The disembodied voice made Jacob’s ears swivel.
“Agents Phlute and Dorpf are here.”
“Good.  Send them in, please.”
Maureen released the intercom switch and smiled.  “Go right on in.”
“Thanks, Maureen,” and the terrier and the stork approached the door.  Dorpf opened it, and both agents got jammed as they tried to enter the office simultaneously.  They backed off and Phlute said, “After you.”
“After you.”
They then got jammed in the doorway again as they tried to go in.  As they struggled, Maureen stood up, circled around her desk, and lashed out with one well-aimed hoof that sent both the stork and the terrier stumbling into the office.
Closing the door, the mare resumed her seat.
Neither of the two agents fell, and as they straightened up Minkerton gestured to a pair of chairs.  “Good, you’re here,” the mink said.  “Have a seat, gentlemen.”  There were two other furs in the room, Roger Thurston and a portly Irish setter whose suit included a Roman collar.
When the two agents came forward to sit down Minkerton said, “I don’t believe you two have met before.”
“Nope.”  Phlute shook his head.
"No . . . not in this existence," Dorpf said in a distracted tone, his gaze straying to the priest in the corner.