Red Rainbow G Johanson (i am malala young readers edition .txt) 📖

“You can have fun on your belly as well.”

“Filthy bitch,” Florence laughed. They crawled to the edge and watched the area come to life. The nightwatchman of the bottling factory finished his shift, having a long conversation with two men who were starting outside the gates, the men looking down at his Dobermans and stroking the subdued and listless pair. That would be a wasted trip to the vets if he chose to get them checked out. Hilaire fancied he would, the nightwatchman walking them off at a languorous pace to suit them. It was pleasing to see somebody being nice when they didn’t know they were being watched.

A troubling thought occurred. “You’ve not drained him as well, have you?”

“You have such a suspicious mind.”

“With good cause when it comes to you. Answer the question.”

“No, I definitely have not,” Florence teased, using the same tone she used when she promised not to go out. This was a double bluff – she said this as though she were lying when she was really being truthful. Hilaire had to believe that. Believing otherwise meant confrontation, which they had no time for right now. Or maybe they did. They didn’t know how long they’d have to wait or if this was indeed the correct location. César had operated from a different building in town at the start of the war, those offices no longer rented due to the costs during a downturn in business. That was why he moved his office and all of the administration staff into the factory. The disgruntled soldiers could potentially be less up to date than Chablis and target the other location. Dark clouds began to appear in the sky – she’d get serious earache from Florence if it started to rain.

The sky was holding up as the numbers down below swelled. Hilaire’s watch had stopped working earlier in the week, but she estimated it must have been approaching six. A large group of workers marched towards the gates of the bottling plant, 15 men in all. They had some materials with them, the group assembling stick and ready written messages to make placards. Hilaire couldn’t read these even with her glasses on. Florence could make out most of them and gave her the real ones after playing with her first. Fair Pay for Fair Work. The War on the Common Man Never Ends. A hammer and a sickle were on one sign, while another referred to Communism only Florence couldn’t (or wouldn’t) read what followed. That was bold stuff considering the current climate. Communists could not afford to expose their heads over the parapets, yet these men weren’t hiding their allegiances at all.

“I’m not going to drain them before you say anything, but I’d turn a hose on the lot of them if I was inside that factory,” Florence said critically.

“We don’t know enough about the Love Phantom’s business to comment on their grievances.” Hilaire had heard mixed reports about one of the founders, Claude Escoffier, but that was going back nigh on 30 years, well before he founded this company with the Selico family.

“Greed. They want more money but also Communism. How does that work?”

“Wanting to be fairly paid isn’t even Communism. That’s a universal thing.”

“Is thing the best word you can think of to describe that ideal?”

“It’s a good word for you,” Hilaire muttered.

“Those lucky men work for the Love Phantom. You wouldn’t go on strike if you worked for the Love Phantom, would you?”

“I’m sure he’s a good boss, but we don’t know. Plus, he isn’t there at the moment. Without him around to sweeten the atmosphere, the acting boss may have unsettled the workflow.”

“A pity he’s not there. He’ll already owe us for saving the factory and his staff. He’d owe us more if he was inside too.”

“We’re on the same side. There shouldn’t be any keeping score of who’s done what for who. Debt collecting is a little low rent for you, isn’t it?”

“My, didn’t you like saying that one? It’s called sport. Entertainment. We have back and forth. The Foundation needs support, and we’re giving it to them. From an apt place for us up top, the Firmament. That doesn’t mean we can’t have a little fun along the way...”

“I don’t know how he got through the meal without you pouncing on him,” Hilaire said sniffily.

“I don’t either,” Florence joked darkly. Hilaire was taking it as a joke, anyway. Whatever happened at that meal, she came back mock-obsessed with him, Florence hammed it up upon her return, talking about him dreamily. The question was, was this just a smokescreen, was she exaggerating her feelings to hide the real ones underneath the floorshow? Florence would not tell Hilaire what she and her Phantom had discussed in confidence, but she claimed that he’d let her see not just under the mask but into his heart. It was hard to tell if that was bullshit or not, though Hilaire strongly doubted that César would reveal anything he didn’t want to. Florence was the world’s most unreliable witness, ‘joking’ and lying so much that it was hard to know what to believe that came out of her mouth. Hilaire even took her exhaling with a pinch of salt.

The protestors missed some of the early starters but were in position to obstruct the majority of them. They did let them past eventually, though the workers had to walk through them which seemed to involve some jostling. An older worker took exception at this protest and shouted at them to disperse at once, to get back to where they came from. He got no reaction from them until he pushed one of them, which earned him a powerhouse punch to the chin that staggered him. The protestors were poised to take it further, the older worker’s colleagues assisting him inside.

“Your comrades seem like nice young men,” Florence said sarcastically.

“Picket lines aren’t harmonious. It’s the nature of the beast.”

“Does that word describe me too?”

“It could do. We