The Clayton Account Read Free Page A

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