She used to think Barton was an important man. He was the manager of the bank, always dressed nice and speaking coolly in his deep voice. The other women at the hotel chided her for keeping him as a client. “Gah, the damn banker! What’s wrong with you? You might as well be fucking a cop,” Kate said once.
But she didn’t see him that way, not as bad as the cops, no. After all, no one ever forced anyone else to keep their money in the bank. She herself kept what little money she had in a can with a screw-top lid inside her dresser. So what? But of course she knew that wasn’t the issue. The existence of the bank reinforced the power of those who could use the bank over those who couldn’t. Money always makes more money for the people who have the money. And then they wield it to hold down everyone else, to foreclose on houses, hike up rents, raise interest, raise prices on things people need just to live.
When she first moved to Spokane Falls, there was no bank yet, and no rich people. Well, there were a few rich men, the ones who owned everything. But no big houses on the South Hill or in Browne’s Addition, no nice restaurants, no trouble from the police about who could live where or do what kind of work. People from the Spokane tribe still came to camp by the river sometimes then, before the cavalry made them go elsewhere; Roslyn didn’t know where. She had tried to tell Barton once that Spokane means Children of the Sun, which she thought was a beautiful name, but he didn’t seem to understand. He was a good deal younger than she, though he acted like he knew more. All the men did. “Have you ever considered cutting his dick off?” Kate asked another time, and she’d laughed along with her. Still, she had taken some pride in having him as her client. As if just by associating with that cruel sort of power, she could have a little of it for her own.
Now, though, he did not seem powerful or important. Nor did he seem young, for that matter. Everything about him was suddenly slightly askew, his hair and clothes and even the way he walked. His voice had taken on a tinny quality. Something had happened to him between the last time he’d come to Wolfe’s and the day he’d met her on the street and taken her to his home. She was certain of this, though she could not guess what. It had made him desperate, and maybe dangerous, like a baby rattlesnake full of venom and easily spooked.
But she had known this kind of man before and was not afraid. Like with snakes, the key was to move slow. Disguise yourself to make him believe you are neither predator nor prey.