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Chapter Nineteen
On Monday morning one of the nastier newspapers called the vandalism at the Union “a well-deserved comeuppance,” which only upped Rhine and Jim’s ire, but there was little they could do. When the sheriff stopped by, they took comfort in his vow to investigate the matter, even though they held little hope that the perpetrators would be found.
Later that day a young male clerk at the bank Rhine had been patronizing since arriving in Virginia City showed which side of the race issue he was on when he told Rhine he hadn’t the time to give Rhine a list of the transactions that had recently crossed his account. He suggested Rhine wait until Whitman Brown came to work the next day. Rhine was already in a foul mood, but rather than punch the snotty little man like he wanted to, he held onto his temper and asked, “Is Graham in his office?” Graham Peyton was the bank’s president, a Republican, and one of the men who often frequented Rhine’s poker games.
The clerk said with disdain, “Mister Peyton doesn’t deal with you people. As I said, you’ll have to wait until Whitman comes in. I’m sure he’ll be able to help you tomorrow.”
Rhine strode over to Peyton’s closed door and knocked.
Behind him the clerk yelled, “Get away from that door!”
Rhine knocked again.
“Did you hear me?” he squealed, coming out from behind his cage.
The other customers looked on wide-eyed.
Graham appeared in the doorway. “Morning, Rhine.”
The clerk pushed his way between them and said tightly, “I told him he needs to wait for Whitman to come in.”
The gray-haired, elderly Graham peered over his spectacles at the clerk and then at Rhine before asking the clerk, “What are you blathering about?”
“Whitman deals with his kind, but he insists—”
Graham held up a hand. The clerk quieted but shot daggers at Rhine, who slowly folded his arms. Graham continued in a voice that held quiet fury, “As you already know, Mr.Fontaine is one of this bank’s biggest and most loyal depositors. Shall I fire you to prove that point?”
The clerk paled and quickly shook his head.
“Then get your arse back to your station, but first, apologize!”
The clerk looked mutinous.
Rhine waited.
Graham eyed the younger man.
“My apology,” he offered grudgingly.
Graham snapped, “MisterFontaine.”
He echoed, “Mr.Fontaine.”
Rhine nodded.
The clerk made a hasty retreat.
Graham said, “My apology, too. I didn’t know he was a bigoted idiot. Come on in.”
Rhine closed the door behind him and sat down in the plush office.
Peyton said, “My apologies again. I heard about the ball and read the trash in the papers. If I could apologize for that, too, I would. What brings you by?”
Rhine told him what he’d wanted from the clerk. Graham got up, went to talk to the same clerk, and returned. “It’ll be here in a few minutes. Anything else?”
“Do you keep the Colored accounts separate from the Whites in your vaults?”
“Of course not. It’s all green.”
