The Balloon Man Read Online Free PDF

complete in his role as a turn-of-the-century bartender, with a black leather
     bow tie, a waistcoat that could be heard all the way to Pride's Crossing, and red satin garters holding up his shirtsleeves
     to keep them free of the donnybrook that he claimed he was expecting to referee as the day waned and the pace picked up and
     the wedding guests got down to the serious business of imbibing. He'd even tried on a walrus mustache; it made him look like
     a genuine walrus, so he'd settled for being his own curmudgeonly self.
    But where did the bartender belong? Certainly not stuck behind a makeshift bar over which he'd had to keep shoving abominations
     such as white wine and some kind of fruit punch that must be seething with vitamins and contained not one single drop of anything
     even mildly alcoholic.Whatever had happened to the youth of today? Didn't anybody get bombed anymore?
    “Damn it all, Max,” snarled the toast of the swan boats, continuing his plaint, “look at that crowd. About as inspirational
     as a dead codfish. Don't try to tell me the old order isn't changing; and not for the better, if you want my opinion.”
    Max didn't want Jem's opinion, but he could hardly say so. “Jeremy” Kelling, former Exalted Chowderhead of the Comrades of
     the Convivial Codfish, was one of Sarah's favorite relatives. Max was rather fond of him, too, and he wouldn't have hurt the
     old coot's feelings for worlds. Jem was complaining for the fun of it, and also because he was so used to his own coterie
     of eccentric old coots and grousing antagonists that he didn't know how to act in a situation as normal as this. The Kellings
     were for once in the minority; it was the Bittersohns and the Rivkins who were adding a strong dash of unforced gaiety to
     the scene. So far, nobody except a few of the old Kelling-related diehards had asked for anything decent and sustaining like
     double martinis or whiskey sours or even a good dry sherry. Tea and coffee, of all things, were in high favor.
    Jem looked as if he wanted to sneak off somewhere and have a good cry. Was J. Lemuel Kelling about to go the way of bathtub
     gin and the Black Bottom? He was feeling glum as a Grinch and wondering how soon he could get out of here when the bride herself,
     responding to her uncle Max'sgesture, dragged Jem out on the dance floor and taught him how to dance the Pussycat Prowl.
    At least he thought she'd taught him. Tracy herself was not so sure. Anyway, she'd made Jem a happy man, and what were bruised
     toes and an occasional stumble between relatives?
    With the chairs and tables pushed back against the tent walls, there was plenty of room for dancing. Noticing that Max was
     looking a bit frazzled, Sarah had slipped off by herself to collect Davy from Mrs. Blufert. She and her son were now out on
     the floor with Tracy and Mike, learning the Pussycat Prowl under Uncle Jem's unneeded and not very reliable tutelage. Max
     was still trying to be genial while feeling as though platoons of small furry animals were marching up and down his spine,
     all of them with cold, damp, smelly little pink feet. He couldn't see Jesse anywhere. The guests were scattering all over
     the place, joining in the dancing, watching from the sidelines, moving out to the decks to gaze at the view, chatting with
     friends, nibbling, and sipping. Max couldn't stand it any longer. He headed for the house.
    The library door was still locked. As soon as he unlocked it he was surrounded by people who claimed they had missed seeing
     the wedding gifts before the service or wanted to make sure their own offerings had been delivered intact, on time, and ready
     to be displayed in suitably prominent settings. He couldn't think of a reasonable excuse for keeping them out, so he switched
     on a couple of overheadspotlights so that those present could all get a good look at the plethora of largesse that was heaped around them; then he
     stood there, trying not to look