It’s An Annual Thing

Flash Fiction by Jim Harrington

“Idaho. My office. Now!” Chief Radford yelled.

“It’s Montana, Sir,” I said, as I stepped into the cramped room he called an office. On the walls were pictures of the chief with local and state politicians, all of them holding fish of various sizes.

“What?”

“My name is Montana, not Idaho.”

“Whatever.” He swiped a set of keys off the desk, grabbed his jacket from the rack, and headed toward the front door. “I got a call from Sheriff Anderson. He needs some assistance. I don’t know how long I’ll be gone.”

“But the hot air balloon festival starts tomorrow.” I leaned against his desk, my legs weak. “And it’s my first one.”

“If you need assistance with crowd control, feel free to deputize someone.”

“I thought you couldn’t hire anyone else.”

“I have confidence in you, Idaho. You’ll figure it out,” he said and left. I heard the rumble of his V8 Ford pickup fade away as he headed out of town.

“Where’s he going?” Mayor Josephs said, entering the office and hooking his thumb like a hitchhiker.

“He said Sheriff Anderson needs help.”

The mayor shook his head. “He’s probably going fishing,” he said as he wiggled two fingers on each hand around fishing. “He pulls this stunt every year at festival time. He and I will have to have a chat when he returns.”

The first day went surprisingly well. I assumed it wouldn’t last. It didn’t.

Wandering through the crowd the next morning, I heard a scream and looked up in time to see someone fall from the lowest balloon. Two men peeked over the edge of the gondola, then disappeared.

“Coming through. Make way.” I approached a group of volunteers with their red baseball caps and blue vests. “What we got?” I said to Ed Jacobs, head of the organizing committee. “Pilot here says he jumped out of the balloon after one of the men aimed a gun at him.” Ed pointed toward the pilot’s leg. “It might be broken.”

I told Ed to assist the paramedics through the crowd when they arrived. “Help should be here shortly,” I said to the pilot. I had no idea how long it might be. The EMTs were assisting a woman who fell off the top of a camper. Hopefully, it wasn’t going to be a busy day for flying people.

I turned back to the pilot. “My name is Sergeant O’Connell. If it’s not too much, I’d like you to tell me what happened.”

“Well, this guy came up to me yesterday and asked if he and his buddy could ride with me today. He even offered to pay double. Since my normal copilot — a.k.a. my wife — was home with the flu, I said sure.” The pilot tried to sit up, let out a long groan, and settled back down.

“They were late arriving and out of breath from running. Once they were settled in, we left the ground, and the big guy told me to hurry up and head west. I told him we were rising as fast as science allowed, and that there wasn’t anything like a steering wheel on board. We could only go where the wind pushed us. ‘I don’t want excuses. I want results,’ the big one said. Then he reached behind his back and pulled out a gun. I looked at his partner, who was holding what looked like a money bag, and he shrugged his shoulders. That’s when I turned off the gas and jumped out.”

“Do you know what kind of gun it was?”

“A big silver one,” he said.

I heard a noise behind me and figured it was the paramedics. It wasn’t. It was my younger brother,  Michael, who I’d deputized until the end of the festival. He crouched next to me holding a rifle and pointed at the balloon. “Bank manager said something about them running toward the field where their getaway balloon waited.” Then he rose to his feet, cocked the gun, and shot straight up. It surprised the hell out of me when he actually put a hole in the sucker. The sound started a stampede, as the folks who had gathered around ran away yelling and screaming.

Michael and I watched the balloon deflate. The gondola’s speed increased as it came closer. Just before it hit the ground a gun came flying out and two sets of hands appeared.

***

The festival finished with one last flight that night. Afterwards, the visitors and participants started packing up to leave the next morning. Everyone was gone by noon.

Chief Radford showed up for work on Monday, an hour late, as usual, and found me sitting at his desk.

“Good morning,” I said.

“Morning, Montana. I hope you’re not getting too comfortable there.”

“Just keeping the seat warm for you. Oh, and the mayor wants to see you ASAP.” He glared at me. I shrugged my shoulders.

After he left, I, as instructed by the mayor, took the sheriff’s “god-awful” pictures off the wall and put them in a large box. I’d have to choose some of my own now that the town council, at the request of the mayor, had approved me as the new chief. “Excellent work handling that incident at the festival,” the mayor said.

I wasn’t sure what the photos might be. I did know they would’t have anything to do with fishing. Perhaps a series of family shots would be appropriate, starting with one of Michael standing next to his trophy balloon.

---

Bio: Jim Harrington lives in Huntersville, NC, with his wife and two dogs. His stories have appeared in The Yard, Short-Story,me, Ariel Chart, CommuterLit, Spank The Carp, Flash Fiction Magazine, and others. More of his works can be found at his blog HERE, and HERE.

Image from pexels/pixabay

Read more Flash Fiction on The Yard: Crime Blog

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