Free The Balloon Man by Charlotte MacLeod Page A

a long story,” Max said. “Why don't you come in and have a cup of coffee, Jofferty?”
    “Thanks, but my wife's decided I'm drinking too much coffee and I've got to cut down. The heck of it is, she's right.”
    “Tea, then, or milk or mead, or anything that suits your fancy. This may take a while. By the way, was there any sign of that
     idiot who crashed his car?”
    “Nope. To tell you the truth, Max, I didn't bother making out a report on that. The car couldn't have been damaged much or
     the guy wouldn't have been able to drive it, and nobody else was involved.”
    The steps were getting cold. Sarah was about to suggest they go indoors before Max got a chill in his fractures when she saw
     a truck approaching. “Finally, there are the tent people. They said they'd be right over.”
    “Maybe they were held up by the smoke bomb,” Max said.
    Jofferty looked out across the lawn toward the sprawl of crumpled fabric. “How come they didn't pack the tent up yesterday?
     When my niece got married the caterers were in such a hurry to finish up they practically grabbed plates and glasses out of
     people's hands. My sister-in-law had a fit about it.”
    “They would have done it yesterday if the balloon hadn't landed on the tent,” Sarah explained.
    “Balloon? Gosh, Mrs. Bittersohn, you people sure lead confusing lives.”
    “This is going to take even longer than I thought,” Max said. “Mind if we get the tent business over and done withfirst, Jofferty? I'm getting a little confused myself. You've got the check, haven't you, Sarah?”
    “Yes, dear. I'll go and get it while you find out how good you are at terrorizing tent makers.”
    Accompanied by Jofferty, Max started off across the lawn toward the tent makers' truck. It was a sorry-looking affair, rusty
     around the fenders and sagging around the edges. One of the back tires was almost bald. The man in charge, or so Max supposed
     him to be, came to meet them. Like the others, he was wearing a pair of grubby white coveralls with yellow trim. The words
     “Omar Inc.” had been applied, also in yellow, across the chest.
    “Sorry, Mr. Kelling,” he began.
    “Bittersohn,” Max said.
    “Oh? Sorry again, Mr. Bittersohn. We would of been here before this, but I'm short-handed, one of my guys walked out on me
     yesterday, and then we ran into this weird black cloud, if you can believe it—”
    “I believe it.”
    “—and José and Willoughby were late anyhow, they don't own cars, and the bus they usually take was full up and wouldn't stop,
     and the next one—”
    “That's all right,” Max said loudly. “So long as you're here. How long will this take?”
    He shouldn't have asked. The foreman was an embittered man, with a lot on his mind. His explanation ended in a tirade. “How
     do they expect me to get good people when they pay peanuts and only hire part-time? Look at thatbunch of bumbling jackasses. Half of 'em are senile and the other half are illegal. I swear, I don't know what the world is
     coming to. The time is out of joint.”
    “Oh, cursed spite,” Max agreed politely. Maybe it did take a steely-eyed Kelling to get this bunch moving. What was taking
     Sarah so long? He decided it would be unmanly to wait for his wife to do the job for him. Squaring his shoulders, he suggested
     that the bunch of bumbling jackasses might get on better with some expert leadership and led the way toward the heap of fabric.
     The men weren't even bumbling. They stood in a huddle, muttering among themselves.
    “Well, get on with it,” the foreman said irritably. “What are you standing there for?”
    “Uh—we don't know what to do with it, Mr. Mortlake.”
    The speaker, a gaunt, grizzled man of advanced years, gestured toward the nearest fold of fabric.
    “Don't know what to do with it? Damn it, Willoughby, I spent a good ten minutes yesterday showing you how to roll up a tent.”
    “Yessir. It ain't the tent, Mr. Mortlake. It's the body. We don't know