The Clayton Account Read Free

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