The Clayton Account (20 page)

‘I don’t want to beat about the bush, counsellor,’ Tom said bluntly. ‘So I suggest we sit down and you tell me the whole story from the start.’

‘Fine by me, Tom. That is precisely why I’m here.’

‘Then go ahead,’ said Tom, settling into an armchair. From the way Sweeney had laid his papers on the elegant low table – were lawyers ever capable of conversation without a pile of paper in front of them? – it was obvious where he intended to sit. He had picked a fine but stiff and uncomfortable upright chair. No doubt because on it he would sit taller and – in his contriving mind – in a commanding position. Had it not been for the seriousness of the matter at hand, Tom would have laughed. In the taxi to the hotel, Tom had recalled how he used to think of Dick Sweeney. A good friend to his father. Successful, confident, dependability personified; the Manhattan big gun. Now he looked at the man and saw right through him. Sweeney had inherited a law practice on Fifth Avenue, a blank cheque for anyone with half a brain and a fair share of ambition. But not for Dick, a two-bit ageing crooked lawyer: devious, frightened and perhaps not all that bright. The signs had always been there, Tom realized now.

‘As you know, Tom,’ Sweeney began, ‘your father –’

‘First, a few ground rules.’

‘As you wish,’ replied Sweeney affecting an air of superiority, but picking up his pad and pen to avoid having to look Tom in the eye.

‘As you may have surmised, I know a lot more than you thought I did.
How
much, of course, you don’t know. But let me assure you that I know enough for you to be well advised to tell the truth. I catch you in one lie, Dick,’ Tom growled, ‘one lousy fucking lie, and I walk out of here. Understood?’

‘Loud and clear, Thomas. Any more ground rules?’

‘Just a fact. A fact that may help clarify your thinking. I have an appointment with Chief Inspector Archer, Scotland Yard. If I have to walk out of this meeting because you bullshit me, I’m going straight to that meeting. Convince me otherwise, and I’ll cancel it.’ Tom mentioned Archer’s name on purpose. Dick was the sort who would check it.

‘What time is your appointment?’ asked Dick casually, writing on his pad.

‘Five-thirty,’ replied Tom. ‘But he will be there until late. If this meeting breaks up, you’ll not make it to the airport.’

‘Thanks for the advice. Anything else before I start?’

‘Yes, there is. A check on your bona fides. You say I’ve got some money that does not belong to me. Tell me how much and where I got it from.’

‘The sum in question is forty-three million dollars, give or take a few thousand. You took it – I presume – from the account of Michael Clayton, your father, held at United Credit Bank, Bahnhofstrasse, Zurich. Any more?’

‘That will do for now. Please start from the beginning, with my grandfather.’

Sweeney nodded and put down his writing pad. He stood and walked across the room to the small bar and poured
himself
a whisky. He looked enquiringly in Tom’s direction as he did so, but the latter shook his head. When he returned, Dick sat on the sofa, diagonally across from Tom. His body language contrived to seem relaxed and benevolent.

‘Your grandfather,’ Sweeney started after taking a sip, ‘was a bootlegger. I told you that, as gently as possible, when you asked about him in New York. An importer of illegal booze between the years of 1920 and 1933. His building company did okay, but it never came to much. He was also a bully, a drunk and a womanizer, who could make and spend money equally fast. He may even have murdered a few people, that I do not know for sure. But my father spent half his time getting him out of trouble. During Prohibition, Pat linked up with a young Hispanic called Joe Salazar, a vig man.’

‘Vig?’

‘Call yourself a New Yorker?’ Sweeney made a poor attempt at a superior smile. ‘Trouble is, your dad sheltered you and Tess from the world he’d been raised in. Happy home and swanky schools! You don’t even know your roots.’

‘I expect you’ll tell me.’

‘I’m trying to. Vigorish man. Loan shark. They flourish in every working-class neighbourhood. Put money out during the week, take it back on payday. Usurers raking in a few thousand per cent a year on short-term loans. Would make your current bosses’ mouths water. Only, if you are late with your payment, they break your legs. If you can’t pay at all, they drop you in the river with your feet in a bucket of concrete. Well, this nice kid Joe became partners with your grandad. He funded purchases, he delivered on seven-day credit to the speakeasies. Most of his customers always paid on time. The few that didn’t are at the bottom of the Hudson.’

‘Does this Joe Salazar have a son?’

‘Sure does. A wretched little gangster by the name of Antonio. Why?’

‘Describe him, please.’

‘Five eight, hundred and seventy pounds, slicked-back black hair. Your regular Made-it-to-Manhattan spick.’

‘Drives around in a purple Stingray, right?’

‘How the hell do you know that?’

‘Just carry on, Dick. You’d got to the bottom of the Hudson when I interrupted.’ Tom was pleased. He’d seen Antonio Salazar at his father’s funeral. He would ask more about him later, but he had scared Dick with that question. It would help to keep him on his toes.

‘Like I was saying,’ Sweeney continued, ‘Pat and Joe formed a partnership that lasted well past the end of Prohibition. By that time Joe’s father, Emilio, who’d started the moneylending business in the first place, was dead. Joe now owned it. With the booze racket at an end, he went back to moneylending. Unlike Pat, Joe kept his money. But back then in ’37, these two guys were – in a legitimate world – financially naive. They kept half their stash in notes – at home, would you believe? The rest they spread around in Savings & Loans. So that’s where my dad came in. He was as crooked as any of them in those days, but he was educated. He knew that if you didn’t get sophisticated, sooner or later you’d fall. So he talked to Pat and Joe – your grandad vouched for my father – and Dad went to Switzerland. He opened three bank accounts: at Credit Suisse for himself in Geneva, at Union Bank for Joe in Lugano, and at United Credit in Zurich, for Pat.’

‘What date in 1937?’ Tom asked, wanting Dick to feel tested.

‘I don’t know. Not without checking.’

‘Okay. Carry on. Three bank accounts in Switzerland?
Frankly
I don’t give a horse’s ass about two of them. Tell me more. 1937, and?’

‘Well, the next seven years, until Pat died, went very fast. In ’39 the war started in Europe and with it came black-market opportunities, so Pat reversed the supply circle. With Joe’s money he’d buy wartime commodities in America – cigarettes, stockings, canned foods – and get them across to Ireland. His relatives out there would somehow smuggle them to England. They made good money, but nothing like the liquor. In September ’41 America got into the spoil and by ’44 Pat was dead.’

‘What killed him?’

‘His heart – just packed in. Truly, Tom. Pat boozed himself stupid every night, lived in constant stress, had no life at home in his last years. Do you know anything about your grandmother?’

‘Tell me.’

‘Mary Finnigan was a stunning seventeen-year-old when she married Pat. They had three children. Your dad, then Magdalene, who became a nun and went off to the missions, and little Thomas. Thomas died at birth and Mary was unable to bear any more children after that. It took her to her grave. Irishwomen were supposed to bear at least six. If you got ten the Pope himself would be godfather. Women with two children were suspect. The old bags in Queens would say it was an act of God. She was spurned even by the priests. That really got Pat in a rage, which is why he pulled your dad out of Saint Dunstan’s primary and sent him off to a Presbyterian prep. Mary aged fast and died heartbroken.’

‘Let’s go back to 1944. Pat died, Mary was already dead, my father was alive and kicking and well out of it. Why did your father feel entitled to withhold from him knowledge of the Zurich bank account?’

‘I never said that was the case, Tom. Cut it out.’

‘
I
’m saying that was the case, Dick. And kindly recall what I said about giving me bullshit.’

‘Because,’ replied Sweeney too quickly, ‘like I said, they were partners. I guess … I assume it was their joint money.’

‘Fuck you, Dick,’ said Tom coldly. ‘I am leaving, and you better start packing. You’ll be spending tonight – and a lot of other nights – in goddamn jail.’ With that he started for the door.

‘For Chrissake, Tom, I’m levelling with you. You walk out of here, you’re as good as dead. And it has nothing to do with me, I swear it,’ pleaded Sweeney.

Clayton stared at him purposefully. ‘Tell me about Sean.’

‘Sean?’ Sweeney appeared bewildered.

‘S-E-A-N, Sean. Think hard, you’ve got five seconds.’

‘Sean who? Sean in what context, for chrissake?’

‘Sean in the context of Patrick Clayton.’

‘You mean Uncle Sean? Pat’s youngest brother?’

‘Tell me about him.’ Tom closed the door and started back towards his seat.

‘Look, Tom, I’ve never been to Ireland, and you’d do well to stay clear of it. We agreed no bullshit. Okay. I’ll tell you what I know about the family, but this is all hearsay. My dad talking from time to time.’

‘Fine,’ agreed Tom, sitting down. ‘Go on.’

‘The Claytons were eight brothers and sisters. I know little about the girls. Patrick was the eldest but he went to America in 1915. Last ship across before the
Lusitania
. Then came Declan. Like all the Claytons, he believed in a free Ireland so he joined De Valera’s revolution, which turned out to be too bad. He was arrested after the 1916 Easter Uprising and executed by the Brits in Dublin Castle. Michael and Seamus, the twins, joined the Freedom
Fighters
in 1919 – the year they became the IRA – and fought for two years in the war of independence. They died together, aged twenty-three. Murdered by the Black & Tans at Croke Park stadium in 1923.’

‘How the hell can you recall the dates so clearly?’

‘In my father’s home, Thomas Clayton, the dates leading to Irish nationhood were recited at prayers before every meal!’

‘Were the Sweeneys Irish patriots too?’

‘My father was, and is. As for the rest, I would not know. Nor, for that matter, do I give a damn.’

‘That leaves Sean.’

‘Sean was the youngest. When the English created the puppet Irish Free State, he would have none of it. He left home, barely a teenager, and went to fight for the IRA. When the IRA became the official army of the Free State, Sean refused to continue serving with them and joined a new group, the Provisionals. He fought for the losing side in the civil war. But a few irregulars survived, Sean included. They kept their weapons and recruited new blood. When they were declared illegal they started bombing in England. He was finally arrested in 1936 and was lucky to escape hanging. By the Forties he was free again and his cause had had its day. Ireland became a Republic, the fighters became Sinn Fein.’

‘And he lived peacefully ever after?’

‘Not Sean. There was now the issue of Northern Ireland. Sean was instrumental in splitting up Sinn Fein. The Officials are the politicians. The Provisionals – with Sean in the thick of them – became the hard guys of today.’

‘Is he still alive?’

‘If he is, he’ll be in his eighties.’

‘Let’s go back to the bank account. How did Joe Salazar get his hands on it?’

‘He didn’t have to, Tom. Joe always handled the money. Pat did the work, made the connections. Joe took all the payments. Once they had their Swiss accounts, Joe would simply divide whatever cash they wanted to hang on to, split the rest in half and send it off to Europe.’

‘Pat trusted Joe that much?’

‘No. But each man knew the other would kill him if he put one foot out of line.’

‘So what happened to Pat’s account after he died?’

‘Joe just carried on using it, signing Pat’s name. But rather than have to copy the signature indefinitely – or be found out on account of Pat being dead – he forged it just once more: he wrote to the bank in Pat’s name and sent a power of attorney in favour of your dad.’

‘Are you saying my dad was in business with Salazar?’

‘Hell no! Mike never even knew. The Mike Clayton signature on the form was done by Joe. In recent years, Joe just signed a pile of blank sheets and gave them to that scumbag Tony. That’s who operated the account ever since.’

‘Where does the money come from?’

‘Laundering, Tom. Big-time money-laundering. But I cannot give you any names. I simply do not know them,’ Sweeney lied.

‘So you now expect me to give Salazar his forty-three million back, right?’

‘If you don’t, they’ll kill you. Whatever you may think of me, I have come here in friendship. I always objected to the use of your father’s name in conjunction with that account. I told my father so when I first learnt about it, which was not that long ago. But you’ve got to believe me, Tom. Salazar will stop at nothing to get it. If he does not put that money back, the true owners will probably kill him.’

‘The true owners being who, precisely?’

‘You don’t want to know.’

‘Who, Dick?’ Tom said firmly.

‘Who do you think wants money laundered, you ass? Use your imagination for Chrissake!’ Sweeney’s aggression was clearly born of fear.

Changing tack, Tom asked: ‘How long are you staying in London?’

‘Just long enough to sort this out.’

‘Then?’

‘I’m going back. And I guarantee you that if you hand the money over, they’ll leave you alone. There are ways to make sure of that.’

‘I’ll think about it. A couple of days. We can meet on Friday.’

‘It’s got to be quicker than that, Tom.’

‘No, it hasn’t. And meanwhile you can ask that goddamn Salazar a question from me. Tell him that when Pat died he had over half a million dollars in the account. From what you’ve told me, that was undoubtedly Pat’s money. Also from what you’ve told me, if Salazar had taken it while Pat lived, he, Joe, would now be dead. So maybe you can give him a call. See what he has to offer me.’

‘Offer you? Tom –’