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


[b]Part Twenty-two.[/b[


Bernie still looked shaken from his encounter with the woodpecker femme and from tripping over a stranger. When he and Dorpf reached the market the stork said to the terrier, “You go on inside. I’m going to step in there,” and he jerked a thumb at a nearby tavern, “and get something to steady myself, okay?”

Dorpf frowned. “Should we drink on duty?” he asked.

“We’re not on duty,” Phlute replied. “We’ll be on the clock when the sun goes down, so no problem. I expect it’s not one of the things you learned in the Academy.”

“No, we didn’t.”

“Then it’s not a problem,” the stork stated. “Go get what you need, and I’ll be in there.” He turned and walked off, leaving Dorpf alone. The terrier shrugged and entered the shop.

“Hello,” Dorpf said as he walked up to the counter. “I need some tooth powder.”

The storekeeper, a short and scrawny Chihuahua, did a double take and gave Dorpf a glare. “My, you’ve got some guts.”

“What?”

“What do you want powdered teeth for?” he demanded. “You’re not from Texas are you?”

The terrier’s ears perked and he shook his head. “No, I’m from Massachusetts.”

“Maybe he believes in Santeria Claus,” another clerk, this one an iguana, offered.

“No,” Dorpf said. “I’m looking for Dr. Lyons – “

“No, there’s no lions here,” the Chihuahua said. “No call for them.”

The iguana brightened. “My Papi has the heart of a lion . . . and a lifetime ban at the zoo."

“No, it’s Doctor Lyons – “

“I don’t think the doctor was lyin’,” the iguana said. “He said I have a congenital disease of the soul.”

“Why was he looking at your feet?” the Chihuahua asked.

“He said I was a poet,” the iguana replied, “and I didn’t know it.”

“But your feet showed it?”

The iguana nodded and raised one leg. “Sure did. They’re long fellows, you know.”

The Chihuahua nodded. “The lion may lie down with the lamb, but the lamb won’t get much sleep,” he said solemnly.

Dorpf said, “When I was in high school, we had the carnival come to town. A feral elephant was part of the act, and she had a dwarf trainer. Corgi, I think.” The two clerks paused to look at him, listening as he added, “The trainer put a ballerina skirt on the elephant. There was a rumor that the trainer and the elephant were lovers.”

The Chihuahua’s mouth hung open. The iguana just stood there, blinking.

“One day the elephant squashed him, and the people who ran the carnival had to shoot the elephant.” Dorpf dipped one ear. “I don’t know where it is, but there was a rumor that they were buried together. Somewhere upstate, under a big tombstone.”

“Uhh,” the iguana said.

The Chihuahua’s ears had flattened. “Doctor Lyons Tooth Powder’s over there,” and he pointed at a set of shelves with the sign Farmacia over them.

“Thanks.” The terrier walked over and selected a can, paid for it and walked out of the store.

Behind him he heard, “Are you sure the little asshole is done?”

“Gringos; what can you do?”

Dorpf slipped the flat can of dentifrice into the inner pocket of his suit jacket while he walked down the street to the tavern. The Boston terrier paused before going inside, hoping that his mother wouldn’t find out that he was entering what was essentially a bar.

Maybe even . . . a saloon.

He took a breath to brace himself and went inside, pausing as his eyes adjusted to the lower light in the establishment. There were a few customers seated at tables, and a few of the furs looked up at him as he stepped inside before returning to their conversations or their bottles or glasses of beer. The bartender continued to industriously wipe and put up clean glasses.

Dorpf walked across the floor to the bar and was about to speak when the bartender asked, “You want drink, Señor?’

“Hm? No, no thank you.”

The bartender, a stocky feline wearing a grimy apron over his clothes, squinted at him. “Why you here then, hey?”

“I’m looking for someone,” Dorpf replied. “Stork, about this high?” He raised a paw high over his head.”

The feline frowned. “’Stork?’”

“Um, bird – really tall bird?”

“Oh, si, si! He come in,” the cat nodded. “He had tequila.”

The terrier looked around. “Where is he?”

The feline’s face split in a broad grin, revealing stained and, in two cases missing, teeth. “There,” he said, pointing to a side door that stood partly open.

“Thank you,” and Dorpf walked over to the door. “Bernie?” he asked, pushing the door open further and stopping.

There were a total of five mels in the room. Four, including Phlute, were standing upright with frozen expressions on their faces; the fifth was in a seated position. All were leaning against the wall in the otherwise empty room. Phlute had a vacant look in his eyes and was gripping a shot glass in one paw.

Dorpf reached out and poked the stork with a finger a few times before leaning close and putting his ear to Phlute’s chest. Yes, his heart was still beating. He passed his paw back and forth in front of Phlute’s face, and the senior agent didn’t react.

The Boston terrier sighed and poked his head out of the room. “Could I get some help to get him back to his room, please?” he asked the bartender.





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