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 Twenty-five.


Dorpf looked up from the thrilling conclusion of The Mouse Knuckle Murders to see Phlute enter the guesthouse, one paw to his face and wincing. He dropped his flashlight on the sofa. The Boston terrier set his book aside and stood up. “Another rake?” he asked.

The stork nodded, heading past his junior partner to the bathroom. There was the sound of running water, and Phlute emerged holding a wet washcloth to his right eye. “I’m going to have that gardener’s fur for a rug,” he declared. “I’ll talk to Ortiz about it in the morning.”

“Well, it’s my turn anyway, so I’ll head out,” Dorpf said, switching off Phlute’s flashlight before picking up his lamp and heading for the door. He paused, a paw on the knob. “Nothing out of the ordinary?”

“Apart from the darn rake?”

“Apart from the rake, yes.”

“Nah, pretty quiet,” Phlute said. “Three more nights of this, and job well done.” The terrier nodded and walked out, leaving Phlute alone.

It wasn’t ice, but the cool water he’d soaked the cloth with should help keep the swelling down. He looked around, snorted at the book Dorpf had been reading, and grabbed a copy of Pretentious Equity magazine, in English. He glanced at a few articles, bypassing the world affairs and opinion pieces for a few items from Hollywood and Broadway, but mainly looking at the cartoons.

The stork snorted and tossed the magazine aside. “What’s the use of a cartoon if it’s not funny?” he asked aloud before getting up, freshening his wet washcloth and resuming his seat to wait until it was his turn on patrol again.


***


The next day the gardener, a thin but wiry wolf, wrung his paws and nearly wilted under Professor Ortiz’s and Bernie Phlute’s gazes. The stork had lodged a complaint with the wolf’s employer as soon as he had awakened about noon, and the goat had summoned the gardener to face his accuser.

“No! No, Señor!” the wolf said. “I swear by the Virgin that I would never set traps out in the gardens for you!”

“Then why do I keep stepping on rakes?” Phlute demanded, his black eye showing slightly through his feathers.

Professor Ortiz turned to the wolf who stammered, “I-I don’t know, Señor! I make sure I lock up everything I take from the shed before I go home.” He looked beseechingly at the Professor. “Please, Profesor, don’t send me away!”

“No, Eduardo,” the goat said to the wolf’s obvious relief, “I shall not send you away. Still, I will personally watch as you gather all your tools and lock them away tonight, to answer Señor Phlute’s accusations.” He glanced up at the stork. “Do you agree?”

Phlute glowered at the wolf. “Fine,” he finally said, “but I’ll watch you lock up, too.”

Eduardo nodded. “Si, si! You will see, Señor! I will make sure all is locked up, I swear!” Ortiz patted him reassuringly on the shoulder and the gardener left the front parlor.

The door shut and Ortiz said, “I hope this will answer your questions, Señor Phlute.”

“It had better,” the stork grumbled. “I’m tired of stepping on rakes.”

Dorpf looked up as Phlute entered the guesthouse, still muttering. “Did the Professor fire the gardener?” the Boston terrier asked.

“Nope,” the stork said, “but I’m going to go around with that guy before he goes home so I can see him lock everything up with my own eyes.”

Jacob nodded. “Um,” he began, only to stop what he was about to say when Phlute looked at him.

“What?” the stork asked.

“Well, El Peludo gave us some passes to go see some wrestling.”

“Yeah, so?”

“Well, we have a few hours before we eat and start patrolling,” the terrier said. “Maybe we could go see what it’s all about?”

Phlute blinked. “Nothing wrong in taking a break,” he said, “since these chupas are supposed to come out at night. Sure!” he said. “You’ll make a great Minkerton’s agent, Jacob.” He went to get cleaned up and ready to go while Dorpf frowned, considering what the senior agent had said.


***


The gym was a dimly-lit refuge from the glare of the afternoon sun, and Dorpf’s nostrils wrinkled at the smell of cigarette and cigar smoke riding over the muskier odor of sweat and unwashed bodies as the two Minkerton’s agents were shown inside and toward a small set of bleachers overlooking the main ring.

“Señor Phlute? Señor Dorpf?” Enrique asked, the goat’s ears lifting in surprise. “I had not expected to see you here.”

“We didn’t expect to see you here, either,” Phlute said as the stork took a seat beside the goat. “I figured you’d be at work or looking after your girlfriend.”

The younger mel grinned. “I have a little time this afternoon and decided to come here to watch these fighters.”

“I thought that Mixteca would have bullfights,” and Enrique and Phlute turned to look at Dorpf as he added, “You know, being a former Spanish colony.”

“You speak of the toreros and the feral bulls, si?” Enrique smiled as Dorpf nodded. “Si, we have such things, but here you can see the different kind of bullfight,” he said as two heavily muscled bovines, the tips of their horns blunted, entered the ring followed by their seconds and a referee.

As the two bulls danced around the ring, looking for an opening, Dorpf looked on interestedly while Phlute asked, “They do this often?”

Enrique nodded. “It’s part of their practice for a match, you see,” and the goat clenched a fist as the two combatants grappled until one succeeded in overbalancing his opponent and throwing him to the mat. “There is even a famous female artist, of the avant-garde, who wrestles.”

“I’ll bet she does,” Phlute smirked. “She fight masked?”

“No, Señor. She wrestles under the name of the Frida Bandita. She admires the grace of the combat, you see.” One of the bulls threw himself at the ring’s ropes and flung himself at the other wrestler, catching him across the chest and slamming him to the canvas. “Ah, bueno!” The goat and the few other spectators applauded.

One bull succeeded in pinning the other, getting to his hooves as the ref finished the three-count and politely helping his opponent up. The two slapped each other on the back as they exited the ring, and ears perked at a few notes strummed on a guitar.

Enrique sat back with an amused smile. “Ah, these two.”

“Who are they?” Dorpf asked as a stallion wearing a black mask, black cape and a black sombrero cordobes came up to the ring. He held a guitar in his paws and was accompanied by a short and scrawny bull who was also masked.

“They are luchadores,” Enrique explained, “but they are more for the entertainment, you see.”

“Clowns?” Phlute asked.

Dorpf’s ears went down and he shuddered.

“In a way, Señor,” the goat assured him as the pair climbed into the ring, the stallion tripping and landing on his face. A pair of pumas took the opposing corner and one advanced to the center ring as the bell rang.

The onlookers laughed and applauded at the pair’s antics as they managed to avoid the pumas, only accidentally managing to knock one adversary down while colliding with each other or ricocheting off the ropes. Finally all four got into a clinch, and when the referee separated them it was discovered that the short bull had pinned the stallion. The bell rang and all four wrestlers acknowledged the plaudits of the crowd as they left the ring.

Phlute applauded politely before glancing at his watch. “We gotta go,” the stork said.

“I hope you will come here tomorrow,” Enrique said. “I have heard that El Peludo himself will wrestle.”

“We’ll see,” Phlute replied.


***


The sun was going down as Bernie Phlute and Professor Ortiz watched as Eduardo put the last tool away in the shed and closed the door. He locked it and turned toward the Professor with a hopeful expression. Ortiz nodded and asked Phlute, “Well, Señor Phlute, you have walked with me and Eduardo, making sure that all of his tools are put away. Are you satisfied?”

“Yeah,” the stork said, nodding. “Thanks, Professor.”

The goat nodded and said to the wolf, “You may go, Eduardo. Have a good night.”

“Gracias, Profesor,” and the wolf walked away.

“I shall take my leave now as well,” Ortiz said. “Have a safe night, Señor Phlute.”

“Thanks,” and the stork went to the guesthouse. He and Dorpf had discussed changing the rotation that night, and the Boston terrier was taking the first patrol around the grounds.

Phlute looked up as Dorpf reentered the guesthouse. “Anything going on?” he asked as he got to his feet.

Dorpf shook his head. “All quiet.”

“Step on anything?”

“No.”

“Okay,” and after picking up his flashlight, Phlute walked outside and into the dark.

He moved carefully across the grounds, relieved that he didn’t hear anything coming from the direction of Mrs. Ehecatl’s house. He walked past the guesthouse to thread his way between a small fishpond and a flowerbed.

The sole of his shoe came down on a vertical piece of metal and the stork hopped to one side as the rake handle swept up. It missed him as he flailed to regain his balance and failed as his right leg plunged up to the knee in the fishpond with a loud splash.




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