The Clayton Account (2 page)

‘Did you go to the funeral?’ Salazar Senior asked without looking up from the papers on his desk.

‘Yeah. He’s well dead and buried.’

‘So, what you gonna do?’ There was now impatience in the voice.

Tony did not mind his father lecturing him or even telling him off from time to time. He had grown accustomed to the gruff manner. But he hated it when this was done in front of Perez. He had no time for the Cuban brute. Perez’s mere presence lowered the tone of the office’s atmosphere, in Tony’s view. Tony Salazar had sworn that the day his father retired and handed over the business, Perez would find himself on the first flight back to Havana.

‘I wasn’t thinking of doing anything in a hurry. Why?’

‘
Cojones
, Tony! The man is dead! Get rid of the whole thing before the world knows about it.’ He threw a copy of the
New York Times
across his desk, folded at the obituaries page. ‘They read newspapers in Switzerland, you know?’

‘Sure they do. So you set this up fifty years ago and it’s worked fine. It’s the best system ever, Dad! He has a son. I can do it again.’

‘What do you know about the son?’

‘He’s some kind of financier, lives in London, England. Hell, he knows shit and he fits the bill even better than the Prof.’

‘Forget it. Kill the whole thing, right away,’ ordered Joe
Salazar
with finality. ‘Use another ghost. We got plenty now.’

‘Sure, as you say. But,’ asked Tony, leaning forward in his chair and placing his right arm on the desk, ‘you’re always telling me I gotta lot to learn, so here is one I want to learn. Why drop a winner?’

Tony tried to hide the contempt he sometimes felt for his father, whom he saw as a short, overweight, balding bully, who still had his suits made by a cheap kike in the Bronx. Sure, Tony respected his achievements, but the old man needed to modernize.

‘Because, you dumb ass, you just said it! The son’s a banker. And he lives in Europe. So, one day – let’s see if this don’t push your limited brain too much – one day, this American banker in Europe goes to some fancy cocktail party full of other bankers from Europe, and some ass-kissing Swiss banker sidles up to him in a little corner of the room and whispers a word of thanks for his business. Get it?’

‘Hell, but that’s a pretty thin scenario, Jesus –’

‘Thin it may be. But our business is about taking no chances. Let me tell you for the hundredth time, you idiot, one mistake is all we are allowed to make. Get it?’

‘No sweat. Consider it done. A week, maybe ten days. Got to dump it in several directions.’

‘That’s better. Now, your mother’s been complaining she ain’t seen you for a month.’

‘I been busy.’

‘Chasing pussy in Atlantic City. You live your life, sonny, but family comes first. Come to lunch Sunday, and bring your mom a present.’

Perez stood up and escorted Tony Salazar out of the office.

* * *

‘My apartment in Washington Square, together with all its contents, I leave to my only daughter Teresa to do with as she wishes, and my house in Long Island to my only son Thomas, with the wish, but not the requirement, that he preserve it for future generations of our family.’

Dick Sweeney paused to take a sip of water from the glass on his desk. Now in his sixties, the tall, burly lawyer exuded the confidence of wealth and the manners of good schooling. Sweeney would have passed for the embodiment of probity and conservatism in any environment, and if the hint of a roguish smile occasionally betrayed his projected image, the casual observer might attribute it to Irish blood.

He peered at the small assembly over the top of his spectacles, then returned to the will. Though wrapped in the mandatory legal terminology, as wills go it was not complicated. Michael Clayton had provided quite equitably for his two children and four grandchildren. His library – except for his work in progress, which he bequeathed to his disciple, Dr Eric Haas at Columbia University – he donated to Harvard University, his alma mater. His collection of Greek, Etruscan and Aramaic artefacts he gave to Columbia’s archaeological museum, and his prized grandfather clock went to the University Club in New York City.

All future royalties from his many books – some now standard college textbooks – were to be placed in trust for Patrick and Michael Clayton, Tom’s children, jointly with Tessa’s own, Edward and Emily Brimestone. His portfolio of stocks and shares he left to Tessa, ‘so that she may continue to enjoy a private income’, with the caveat that she should leave its management to Wilberforce Prendergast, the brokers who had served him so well over the years.

‘The remainder of my estate,’ Sweeney continued reading, ‘including all bank balances and any life assurance proceeds, I leave to my only son Thomas Declan Clayton.’

Altogether, an estate valued at just under $6 million. Much of it based on his own inheritance, but to which he had added by living without excesses and dedicating his life to academic work.

‘As executor of your father’s will, Tom, Tess,’ Dick said, looking at them in turn while his secretary and junior associate made notes, ‘I shall do everything to expedite the transfer of titles. There will be some federal and state taxes to pay, of which I have made a preliminary estimate,’ he added, handing over typed sheets to each of them, ‘but in all it should be a simple matter and I foresee no undue delays.’

‘Thanks, Dick,’ replied Tessa in her usual, self-assured, Bryn Mawr tonality. ‘I’m very happy to leave matters in your capable hands.’

‘Same here,’ said Tom.

‘In that case,’ said Sweeney, his official voice now replaced by a more avuncular tone, ‘may I suggest lunch?’

‘If I could take a raincheck on that one,’ replied Tessa. ‘I’m meeting Byron for lunch and I have a full afternoon booked up.’

‘I shall hold you to it, Tess,’ said Sweeney, smiling, then turned enquiringly to Tom.

‘Sure, Dick, I’d love to,’ replied Tom eagerly, then adding, as if to play down his keenness: ‘I need to get back to England by the weekend, and there are a couple of things I want to talk over with you.’

The relationship between the Sweeneys and the Claytons went back most of the century. Eamon Sweeney and Patrick Clayton had arrived in America together in 1915, having worked their passage on the same steamer from Ireland.
Within
days of reaching New York they had both found jobs, Sweeney as a clerk with a downtown law firm, Clayton as a construction worker in Brooklyn. Despite their diverging paths thereafter, their friendship had remained intact. In later life, as they each achieved their very distinct versions of success, the bond was to grow closer.

So while Patrick carved his way in the corrupt world of public-works contracts, Eamon went to night school and became a lawyer. Both men married, had children and bought houses in Westchester County. Their respective eldest sons, Michael and Richard, attended Harvard together. Then Dick joined his father’s law offices and eventually succeeded him as senior partner, but Michael had no penchant for business and Patrick had never encouraged him to join the family firm, indeed he had been rather pleased to see his son opt for an academic career.

They stood outside the offices of Sweeney Tulley McAndrews on Fifth Avenue until Tessa had got in a taxi to Wall Street. Then the two men walked along 48th Street towards the Waldorf. The maître d’hôtel made a fuss over Mr Sweeney and escorted him and his guest to the usual table in Peacock Alley. A soft melody drifted in from the Cocktail Terrace where someone played Cole Porter’s old piano.

‘Dick,’ said Tom tentatively, stirring his scotch to melt some of the ice, ‘did you know my grandfather?’

‘Sure. He and my old man were bosom buddies. The best.’

‘Of course. But what I’m really asking is: how much do you know about his business dealings?’

‘Hey, Tom, that’s a strange thing to ask! What exactly do you want to know?’

‘My father never really talked about it. As though it embarrassed him a bit. I know Patrick was never short of a buck, even during the Depression. But what happened to his construction company?’

‘I guess it died with him. It was pretty much his own thing.’

‘But you were his lawyers, right?’

‘Well, kind of. It was strictly my dad’s account. As I said, good pals and all that. From the Old Country.’

‘So you’d have records?’

‘If we do, I never saw them. But I imagine there must be files down in the archives. I guess … if you really wanted to see them, there may be grounds for letting you. But it’s all Thirties and Forties stuff. I doubt you’d learn much of interest. What are you after?’

‘Oh, I suppose it’s just roots, Dick,’ Tom lied. Then, to justify his interest, he elaborated:

‘Since Dad had a pretty good start in life, and so did we, I’ve often wondered where it all came from.’

Dick Sweeney nodded understandingly, his face that of an elder about to pass on his wisdom to the younger man.

‘Look, Tom,’ he said benevolently, ‘it was pretty tough for immigrants in those days.’

Tom nodded encouragingly, and Sweeney continued:

‘The Far West may well have been in Oklahoma, but’ – he waved his left thumb in the direction of the Hudson River – ‘it started right there in New Jersey. Know what I mean?’

‘Sure,’ Tom smiled. ‘Probably hasn’t moved that much further either.’

They laughed. Dick leaned in closer to Tom and continued in a low voice:

‘So you lived by your wits. And if you could make a few bucks out of it, a little bootlegging didn’t hurt anybody
too
much. Nothing like the Chicago lot, mind you. Over here it was all more contained.’

‘Thanks. I appreciate your candour. And no, it does not worry me one bit.’ He smiled, then asked, ‘Were they successful?’

‘Very,’ replied Sweeney returning the smile.

‘And they were never … caught?’

‘Didn’t work that way, Tom.’ Dick shook his head as if amused. ‘No one got caught. Not if they paid the right people, kept low, made no noise.’

Tom paused as if in thought, then nodded, hoping his next question would sound casual enough.

‘Thanks again, Dick. Changing the subject, there is one thing I wouldn’t mind having a copy of …’

‘Name it,’ said Sweeney, suddenly the lawyer again, producing his pocket notebook and a pen.

‘My grandfather’s will. If you could fish it out, I’d very much like to take it back with me.’

‘Sure thing. When are you leaving?’

‘Thursday night.’

‘I’ll have it for you by tomorrow.’

‘Thanks.’

And then they ate. Turtle soup and the finest New York Cut for Clayton. Oysters and Lamb Cutlets Villeroi for Sweeney. Washed down with Napa Valley Zinfandel, then coffee and cigars. Neither man subscribed to eating fashions. And not another word was said on the matter of Patrick Clayton.

Morales reclined in the silk-cushioned bench swing and rocked it gently back and forth, allowing the soles of his Gucci loafers to slide on the polished marble floor. He dressed casually, yet unmistakably expensively. The top buttons of his pale silk shirt were undone, to reveal a thick chain from which a
diamond
-studded crucifix swayed with the motion of the swing. His deep tan emphasized the green pallor of his eyes and the sun-bleached ends of his thinning auburn hair. Though he was in his forties, his age was belied by taut muscles which the clothes could not completely conceal.

The view from the veranda was breathtaking, the flawless lawn stretching majestically to the south-west, an equatorial setting sun casting a gentle warmth over beds of white and pink carnations before it slowly sank behind the cordillera. But he knew that appearances were deceptive, that in the woods beyond his garden men would be patrolling the perimeter, armed with AK-47s and pouches full of hand grenades.

And this was starting to bother him: that he, Carlos Alberto Morales, in the peace of his own home, could not relax without the protection of a private army. Out of sight, behind the neatly trimmed hedge, he could hear the splashing and laughter of his children enjoying the early evening in the swimming pool, the very sounds accentuating his yearning for living space.

The goddamn gringos were, as always, at the root of the problem.
Their
people consumed his produce with relentless passion and their government blamed
him
. At first it had just meant Morales could no longer set foot in America, but he could live with that. But in recent years they had started bringing the fight over to Colombia, and that was really bad news. They threw money at the government in Bogotá: loans, aid, planes, guns and ‘advisors’, tough Drug Enforcement Agents, seconded to the Colombian Army, with a gun in one hand and a chequebook in the other. Even Medellín was becoming unsafe; people could be tempted to betray you. Fifty thousand bought almost anything in Colombia. So far Morales had fought greed with fear: treason meant death, for the traitor
and
his entire family, if need be. But even that no longer guaranteed protection, so he had thought long and hard for a better tactic – and now he had a new idea.

Morales heard the car before he could see it. He knew it would have been stopped at the main gate and then observed from the woods as the walkie-talkies relayed its progress. Nevertheless, he was pleased to see two of his bodyguards come out of the house and walk up to meet the vehicle. It pulled up in front of the veranda and its sole occupant emerged.

‘Good afternoon, Don Carlos,’ said the new arrival. Tall and fair and, as always, immaculately dressed in a linen summer suit, he walked with the deadly assured stalk of a mountain wild-cat. ‘I came over as quickly as I could.’

‘Come up, Enrique. Have a cool drink.’ Morales pointed for the visitor to sit next to him.

They sat side by side in silence, Morales still gently swinging them to and fro. The drinks arrived, fruit juices in crystal goblets on a silver tray.

Morales dismissed the servant.

‘This land,’ he said, waving his right arm at the hills and forests beyond the estate, ‘has been very good to me, you know, Enrique?’

‘I expect it has, Don Carlos,’ the visitor replied non-committally. ‘More as a result of your own efforts than its own generosity, I would say.’