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 One.


The American training academy for the world-famous Minkerton’s Detective Agency sprawled over several hundred acres of forested hills in the state of New York between Fishkill and the Hudson River. Minkerton’s agents recruited or assigned to offices in Europe were trained at a former noble’s estate in Ireland.

The town of Fishkill was likely a deliberate choice, because as their surname implies the founder and heads of the agency were minks.

The Fishkill site, then, included running trails and obstacle courses for physical fitness, as well as gymnasiums and firing ranges to enable a student to master both firearms and paw-to-paw combat. The site and curriculum were designed to make a new member of the organization the best they could possibly be before they were released into the field. Professionalism and proficiency were key tenets of the agency.

On a certain Monday in February of nineteen thirty-nine, then, a class of ten students perked their ears and straightened up in their seats as their instructor strode in. Several boggled as the very tall stork banged his head against the top of the doorframe.

Bernie Phlute rubbed his head with a feathered paw and grumbled as he wove his way around the tables in the classroom and finally stopped at the front desk. “Always making the doors too low around here,” he finally muttered coherently while he scrawled his name on the chalkboard. “Good morning!” he said after turning to face the class. “Name’s Bernie Phlute, and I’ve been a top agent with the Agency for years. I could tell you some stories, yesiree, seen it all . . . “ His voice trailed off until he gave a little start, as if suddenly recalling where he was.

“Today I’m here to teach all of you gun safety,” the stork declared, drawing his pistol. “As a Minkerton’s agent, you may have to use this to save your own life, or someone else’s. So for starters,” and he pointed the weapon at the far wall, “never point it at anyone unless you plan on using it.”

The students eyed him warily as he waved the weapon, a Colt Model 1903 Hammerless, around in a casual manner. “I’m a trained professional,” Phlute said, “so I’ve had to use this, and I know how to use it. You don’t point it anyone, and you keep your finger off the trigger until you’re ready to use it.”

One student, a beagle, piped up, “Um, Sir - ?”

“I’ll take questions when I’m done, kid,” Phlute said airily, his finger still on the trigger. A few of the students had seen what the beagle saw, and one or two prepared to get out of their seats.

“So . . . where was I? Hmm . . . don’t point it, uh huh . . . finger off the trigger, okay . . . Ah! Got it! You always assume the gun’s loaded,” and with that he holstered the pistol.

There was a loud BANG that echoed in the small classroom and made ten pairs of ears go flat. Half of the class were facedown and flat on the floor, while the others were hiding under their desks.

As the sound faded and the smell of gunpowder drifted around the room, Phlute took his paw from the holstered pistol. He stood there, blinking at the students, a few of which were peeking out from behind the desks or trying to decide if the coast was clear enough to get up from the floor.

“Um . . . “ The stork ventured, his beak moving about like a weathervane as if he was sniffing the air. “What was that?” It seemed that something finally occurred to him and he glanced down. “Oh.”

A few of the more daring students craned to see a ragged gouge in the side of Phlute’s right shoe.

“So like I said,” Phlute said as he limped around the room, “you never assume the gun’s empty. Got it?”

There was a chorus of “Yes Sirs.”

“Good. “All of you take a break while I get a bandage,” and the stork hobbled out of the room.


***


Another instructor had filled in for Bernie, so the stork’s absence from the firearms safety class wasn’t missed.

An hour later, Phlute entered part of the academy complex’s gymnasium whose floor was covered with thick mats. The same ten students, now all wearing shorts and undershirts, watched the stork warily as he limped jauntily into the room. “Hi guys!” the stork said happily.

“Um, are you all right, Sir?” one student asked diffidently.

“Sure am, yesiree!” Bernie replied. “Just rubbed some dirt on it and walked it off. No problem, really. Was just a scratch.”

The other students exchanged looks as Phlute said, “What’s this we’re doing, unarmed combat! A good agent can’t rely solely on their gun, or knife, or pointed stick – you have to be quick on your feet and skilled with your paws.” He threw his chest out proudly. “I was trained by the best teachers in Schenectady, I was!”

“Ah, so desu ka?” came a soft voice from behind the class, and the ten trainees turned as a short rabbit wearing a white karate gi belted in black at the waist strode forward. “Welcome, class,” the gray and white-furred rabbit said, facing the group and bowing slightly before glancing at Phlute. “Agent Phlute.”

“Hi, Hashimoto!” the stork said. He walked across the mat to the rabbit and extended a paw, only to have Hashimoto grab the proffered limb with his left paw and twisted, rotating Phlute’s right arm as the stork winced in pain and bent over.

“From here,” Hashimoto told the students, “I can place Agent Phlute on the floor, or lead him about.” He released Phlute and stepped back as Bernie massaged feeling back into his paw. “Or I could have broken his arm.”

“That was a dirty trick,” Bernie said. “I wasn’t expecting it.”

“Ah.” Hashimoto gestured for the students to stand back off the mat. He squared his stance facing Phlute and said, “Then I shall wait for you, Agent Phlute.”

“Oh, wanna put on a show, huh?” And the stork raised his paws, took a few steps forward and struck a pose with his paws overhead and his left knee raised.

The rabbit nodded. “The crane style. It is appropriate for you.” He held his paws slightly cupped. “Attack me when you are ready.”

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Phlute said.

A quiet smile graced the rabbit’s stoic features. “You will not. Attack me.”

“All right, you asked for it,” and Phlute sprang forward a step and kicked out. “HAAAA!”

What ensued wasn’t very hard to follow. Hashimoto seized the outthrust leg, twisted, and let go of the limb, letting Phlute’s momentum carry him across the room and back-first into the wall. The stork’s impact dented the plaster and lath construction of the wall, and he fell into a heap on the floor.

“Hmm, need paint for wall.” Hashimoto bowed toward the unconscious stork before turning away from Phlute and the huge dent in the wall and facing the students. “You wish to learn this?” Ten heads nodded eagerly. “So, we shall begin with your footing and balance . . . “




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