The Window Washer

by Eric Rill

  The man pulled his trousers up over his belly and squinted, trying to read the small handwriting. “That’s me, but I’m not expecting a package today,” he said.

  “Must be an early Christmas present,” Maggie grinned, backing up a few steps and pushing the tiny button on her belt buckle that triggered the camera. “Or maybe you’ve won the Reader’s Digest sweepstakes.”

  “Who’s it from?” he asked, eyeing Maggie.

  “I can’t read the handwriting—left my glasses in the truck. Maybe you can,” she said, thrusting the package into his hand.

  He squinted and then said, “I can’t make it out, either.”

  “Look, mister, they’re going to fire my ass if I don’t get the last of my deliveries done before twelve. So could you just sign the receipt and let me get on with my work?”

  The man pulled a pen from his shirt pocket and scribbled his signature as Maggie snapped off another five pictures. He gave it back to her and she ripped the middle receipt off and handed it to him, making sure not to smudge the top or bottom copies, so that the tech guys could pull the prints and the Bureau’s handwriting experts could analyze the signature. They already figured Napoli was Tommy Castellano. Hopefully, this would prove it.

  12

  Tommy Castellano’s apartment door was ajar. He reached down and laid his grocery bag on the carpet in the corridor. Then he wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, reached for the .38 tucked into a holster under his jacket, and pushed the door open, his gun moving from left to right and back again. He kept his back against the wall as he advanced toward the bedroom.

  “Nice and easy, asshole,” Castellano said in a steady voice. “Drop whatever you have in your hand and turn around—real slow—or I’ll blow your fuckin’ brains into the courtyard.”

  Nick Grant must have jumped a foot in the air before dropping his squeegee on the carpet. “Jesus Christ! Don’t shoot!” he exclaimed, not daring to turn around to see the face that belonged to the voice.

  Castellano lunged toward Grant and whacked the side of his forehead with the pistol, causing a gush of blood to stream down his right cheek.

  “Who the fuck are you?” Castellano demanded as he stood over him. “And what are you doing here?”

  “I’m the window washer,” Grant stammered, holding his hand to his head to stem the thick flow.

  “I don’t care if you’re the fucking king of Siam!” Castellano exploded. “Who let you into my apartment?”

  “I have a master key,” Grant replied. “It says on my slip that you authorized me to clean when you’re not in,” Grant said, reaching into his pocket with his free hand.

  Castellano cocked the hammer. “Keep your hands where they are!” he ordered. “I never authorized nobody to come in here. You a cop?”

  “The super gave me a list of apartments that I could clean when the tenants weren’t home,” Grant explained. “Apartment 410 is on the list.”

  Castellano swore at himself under his breath for not getting around to installing a double lock on his place like he had on the apartment downstairs where Angela counted the money. “Let me see that paper!”

  Grant felt in his trouser pocket for the crumpled piece of paper and held it above his shoulders. Castellano snapped it from him, glanced at it, and then uncocked his revolver, putting the safety back on and sliding it back into his holster. “Turn around,” Castellano ordered. Noticing Grant’s confused look, Castellano said, “I got a permit for this thing, if that’s what you’re thinking.” He decided the less he said the better, so he grabbed a soiled towel that was hanging over a carton in the corner and tossed it on the floor beside Grant. “Wipe that shit off your face and get out—and don’t bother coming back. I’ll take care of my own windows from now on.”

  Grant hoisted his still-trembling body off the carpet without touching the grimy towel and made his way to the hallway and the elevator down to the superintendent’s office.

  Jimmy Flinker was playing solitaire when Grant burst in. “Jesus Christ, what happened to you? Turn the wrong way in that little rig of yours?” Flinker always fancied himself a comedian, but if a vote were taken at the Langham, it would probably be unanimous that he would be better off not quitting his day job. Nevertheless, all the tenants loved him—well, maybe not Castellano, given the circumstances.

  “You put 410 on the list with an asterisk beside it.”

  “And so what’s your point?”

  “My point is the guy almost killed me for being up there. Seems he doesn’t like visitors—especially unannounced ones.”

  Flinker slid his feet off the desk and opened the bottom drawer, pulling out a manila folder. He put on his reading glasses and flipped through the rumpled papers. Then he looked up at Grant, a sheepish grin on his face. “My mistake, Nick. That authorization was for 409.”

  “That mistake almost disfigured me, Jimmy,” Grant said, studying his bloodstained face in the mirror behind the credenza.

  Flinker shrugged. “What can I say? That guy Castellano is crazy. I knew that the first day he walked in. Almost didn’t take him, but Harris over at head office likes to keep this place full. And I’m not into listening to him whine when it’s not.”

  Grant wiped away some of the blood, revealing a deep gash.

  “Maybe you should go over to Mount Carmel and have them take a look at it,” Flinker suggested.

  “I’ll be okay. I’ve got some work to finish.”

  *

  Grant knocked on the door of Apartment 206. A pair of ice blue eyes and an aquiline nose peered at him from behind a brass chain that filled the gap between the open door and the door frame. “What can I do for you?” the young woman asked in a husky voice.

  “I’m here to wash your windows.”

  “Oh yes. I got the note from the superintendent,” she said, unlatching the chain. “How long will this take?”

  “Shouldn’t be more than ten minutes,” Grant said, taking in the scent of her perfume.

  “My God! What happened to you?” she exclaimed as he turned to face her.

  “Walked into a dumpster,” he said, making an effort to smile as the pain sliced through his head.

  “Did you get into a fight?” she asked.

  “You could say that,” Grant replied. “But he didn’t.”

  “Who didn’t?” she questioned.

  “The guy who belted me. Seems he didn’t like the way I move my squeegee.”

  The woman shrugged her shoulders. “I just brewed some coffee,” she said, closing the door behind her. “Do you want some?”

  “That would be great. Black, please,” he replied.

  She slipped into the kitchen, but not before he had time to admire the long legs that extended down from under her tight black skirt.

  “What’s your name?” she called out from the kitchen as he began soaping up the first window.

  “Nick,” he said, his sweaty palm gripping the squeegee.

  She returned with a large white mug with the Columbus Blue Jackets logo and gave it to Grant. “Mine’s Angela,” she said, offering a delicate hand. “Angela Ferraro.”

  Grant put down the squeegee and wiped his free hand on his trousers.

  “I don’t bite,” she laughed, tossing her head back, allowing her long black mane to tumble down her back.

  “I just didn’t want to get you all dirty,” Grant explained.

  “How long have you been doing this?” Angela asked.

  Grant took a deep breath. “Do you know who lives above you in 306?” he asked. “I don’t seem to be able to get in there to do the inside.”

  Angela’s eyes dropped toward the russet-colored rug. “I’ve never heard anyone up there,” she said. “Maybe it’s unoccupied.”

  “The super said it was rented, but they don’t want me to use the master key,” Grant said. “Funny, some tenants like me to clean when they’re home, and others don’t want to be there.”

  Angela moved over to the co
uch by the window, sat down, and crossed her legs, allowing her skirt to slide another few inches up her thigh. “And which do you prefer?” she asked.

  “Most of the time I like to be alone,” Grant said.

  “Should I take that as a hint?” she smiled.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean you,” he said, quickly shifting his gaze back toward the courtyard.

  “I’ve seen you hanging from the roof on your scaffold,” Angela said. “That must be lonely, being up there by yourself all day.”

  “It’s peaceful,” Grant said. “The only thing I hear when I’m up there is the wind and the occasional bird flying by.”

  “How long have you been doing this kind of work?” Angela asked again, scrutinizing him.

  “Not very long,” he said, turning back to pick up his squeegee.

  “And before that?” she asked.

  Nick wiped the window with brisk, exaggerated strokes. “What do you do for a living?” he asked.

  “Turnabout’s fair play,” she laughed. “I do bookkeeping from the apartment. It’s not very regular, but it pays the bills.”

  Grant hesitated for a moment. “You look familiar. I thought I saw you by the window upstairs in 306 a while back.”

  Angela’s face reddened. “It wasn’t me,” she said. “You must have mistaken me for someone else.”

  Grant watched her fumble with the buttons on her blouse. “Yeah, guess you’re right. Sometimes my eyes play tricks on me up there—and the other tower is pretty far away.”

  “You probably had the wrong apartment,” she agreed. “And I doubt you would have seen me around; I haven’t been in town that long.”

  Grant nodded. “I’m done here,” he said, stooping over to pick up his bucket. “Should I get the bedroom now?”

  “Not this time,” she said. “I’m late for an appointment.”

  As soon as Grant left, Angela rushed into the bedroom, reached up behind a suitcase in the closet, and pulled down a cell phone. She turned it on and pressed redial. “I need to see you right away,” she said. “Will three o’clock give you enough time?”

  *

  The lunch crowd at Positano’s was gone except for two businessmen going over spreadsheets at a window table. Angela sat with her back to the wall and sipped her cold coffee. She nodded as a gray-haired man in his fifties in a pinstripe suit approached her table and slid into a scratched wooden chair. They waited until the waitress brought him a black coffee and refilled her cup before speaking. “Sorry to drag you out in this wretched weather,” she said.

  “That’s my job,” Clancy Howell said. “Did you leave the money in your gym locker this morning?”

  “Castellano didn’t pay me this week. Guess he figured the bonus last week would more than compensate for it,” Angela said. “But I made a note of it in my log and left it in my locker.”

  “I told the office how you passed the five grand on,” he said. “They were impressed.”

  “Give me a break! Do you think I’d screw around for five grand? Ten, maybe.” She smiled, stretching her full lips over a perfect set of crystal white teeth. “But not five.”

  “You know how important it is to document everything—and I mean everything,” Howell reminded her.

  “There’s a guy who washes windows at the Langham. He was doing my inside windows and told me he thought he saw me up in 306,” she said. “I can count the times on one hand that I’ve opened the drapes to get some sunshine into that dark pit.”

  “What’s the story on him?” Howell asked.

  “I’m not sure. But something doesn’t mesh. He’s too well-spoken for a working stiff, and his hands look like they’re right out of a Palmolive soap commercial.”

  “Dumb move on the drapes, Angela. Real dumb!” Howell toyed with his cup in silence and then looked up at her. “This is too big to screw up for some goddamn sunshine!”

  “I’ll find out more on him.”

  “You damn well better. We’ve spent too much time on this to watch it implode because of some jerkoff window washer,” Howell warned.

  “Everything’s going to be fine,” Angela said, resting her hand on Howell’s forearm. “Don’t worry.”

  Howell pushed his chair back, stood up, and glared down at her. “I’m sure it will, Angela.”

  13

  Tommy Castellano rushed across South High Street, tugging his umbrella down over his head to prevent the sudden downpour from soaking him any more than it already had. When he left his apartment on Spring Street, it had been cloudy and gray. The rain wasn’t supposed to start until later in the day; otherwise, he would have had the agency send the girls over to his place.

  He ducked into the entrance of a convenience store for a few seconds and then dashed across the street toward a stone building sandwiched between two skyscrapers that housed Columbus International Bank. The bank had been in existence since 1982 and was now one of the leading international financial institutions in the city, catering to multinational corporations and wealthy individual depositors. Castellano nodded to the receptionist and parked himself in a leather wing chair. Moments later, a silver-haired woman approached him. “Mr. Craven will see you now,” she said.

  Castellano entered a large office with windows opening on to a private garden. Jonathan Craven, a slight man with a year-round suntan and a penchant for Armani suits, came around from behind his antique desk and offered his hand as his secretary closed the door behind her. Craven was a thirty-eight-year-old college graduate who had worked for a small financial institution in New York before being lured back to Columbus to run the bank.

  “Tommy, good to see you,” Craven said. “Coffee?”

  “No, thanks,” Castellano said, taking his suit jacket off, exposing large perspiration stains under his arms.

  “Let’s sit over there,” Craven said, pointing to a silk-covered sofa by the window.

  Castellano pulled a yellow pad out of his briefcase. “Johnny, I’ve got the most recent list,” he said, pushing his glasses halfway down his bulbous nose. He studied the first page for a moment and then began. “I need lots of bank drafts—all different denominations—all under ten grand. Make the total come out to six hundred and eighty-two thousand.” The bank was obligated by the Treasury Department to report all bank transactions over ten thousand, and Castellano figured there was enough going on, altering statements and reports; he didn’t need to have one more thing hanging out there for the feds to catch.

  “When do you want them?” Craven asked, taking careful notes.

  “Friday noon at the latest,” he said.

  “What about the money to cover them?”

  “The cop will call you from his mobile as he’s pulling into your garage,” Castellano replied. “I also need a couple of your couriers to mule seven million down to Antigua.”

  “What denominations?” Craven asked, jotting some additional notes on his pad.

  “Small stuff. Mostly twenties and some fifties.”

  “That’s going to weigh a ton!” Craven exclaimed, putting down his gold fountain pen and looking over at the heavyset man.

  “Is that a problem?” Castellano asked.

  “No, Tommy. I’ll get it done,” he assured him.

  “Place the funds in Target Holdings and then arrange for Target to loan our development company in Cleveland approximately the same amount. And make the rate as high as you can without arousing suspicion,” he ordered.

  The Pascale family used different methods to launder their money. One was to use couriers to haul cash down to the islands—a somewhat risky method, which meant sometimes having to pay off corrupt customs officials in these jurisdictions. Once the money was safely offshore, they used their own companies down there, like Target Holdings, to funnel money back to them in the form of loans to one of their companies in the United States. The American companies then paid exorbitant interest rates to the offshore companies, thus getting even more illicit money out of the country.

 
“Tommy, I want to talk to you about another way we can bury big money,” Craven said, pulling on his French cuffs.

  “I don’t think there is any way we haven’t thought of,” Castellano grinned.

  “It’s what the Arabs have been doing forever—and the Chinese before them. The Arabs call it hawala—means ‘trust.’ The Chinese used to call it feiqian. That means ‘flying money,’” he explained. “What happens is, we tell a broker here in the States that we want to send, say, ten million to Cayman. For a fee, probably no more than what we’re paying for the couriers and the payoffs, he calls down there and arranges for our guy to pick it up in cash. No receipts, no names, and no cash to hassle moving over the border, or by electronic transfer. The broker here gives us a code name. We pass it on to our guy and he just gives the broker down there the code name and walks out with the money.”

  “Walks out with ten big ones in cash, no questions asked?” Castellano said with an incredulous expression.

  “Yeah, and when the transaction is complete, both brokers destroy whatever records they’ve made.”

  “How do they settle up?” Castellano asked.

  “They work it like a code of honor. May be that there are dozens of transactions that eventually even out. If not, then I guess someone mules some cash to make up the difference.”

  Castellano leaned back in his chair and drew a deep breath. “Sounds interesting,” he said. “Let me talk to the guys up in Cleveland.”

  “What about documentation for the sales to the gold refiners from Polar Bullion?” Craven continued, looking back at his notes. Polar Bullion was one of Pascale’s companies that sold fictitious gold and platinum to companies that were only too happy to provide fake invoices for a lucrative fee. Then the monies from the “sale” were run through Polar as sales, and legitimized. The only complication would be if the Internal Revenue Service cross-checked—which was highly unlikely, given their workload and the paring down of inspectors over the past few years.