Picture: Nighthawks (1942) by Edward Hopper
“So, is this the lady in red you were telling me about?” he said. “The one who wanted that book of yours, and the one who—might I add—I encouraged you to contact about it?”
“Allison Flint,” she said, extending her hand.
“Charlie Bulforth.” Charlie grasped and shook it. “Flint, huh?” he chortled. “Not likely. I know a Durant when I see one. We’ve still got some of the old posters in the station…the ones your dad put out when you ran away a few years back, remember?”
“I was fifteen,” Allison said coldly. “Hardly a few years ago.”
“Fair enough,” Charlie said, shoveling a forkful of pie into his maw. “I know you think you’re being clever with that alias, ma’am, but it doesn’t do any good. I hear society folks talking all the time about how scandalous it is that Mr. Durant’s only daughter’s gone over to the reds.”
“I see,” Allison said. “Do they also talk about how scandalous it was when your and your friends broke up our march the other year with clubs? I seem to remember you alternating between using your bullhorn to shout and to batter unarmed marchers.”