Page 93 of Bombshell

“Why did you want to see me again, Mr. Randolph?” Luca’s smooth tone is designed to comfort prospective clients, help them talk about difficult things. People are lulled by his effortless, almost bored bastardry.

“Trouble at home, I’m afraid,” says Randolph, his quavering voice betraying his nervousness.

“The wife?”

“You always get married with good intentions,” Randolph says, “but yes…”

“I’m sorry to hear it’s not working out,” Luca says, sounding anything but. “I’ve always found that an ending is also a new beginning…”

“I’m hoping,” says Randolph.

It must be hard to solicit the execution of your wife. Even for someone like Randolph. He just can’t bring himself to be more explicit. But we need him to say it—if I don’t start scratching Noah’s back, he might end up being my second shadow for the rest of my life. A money launderer hiring a hitman is just a big enough fish to satisfy him for a bit.

“I might be able to help you. We’re talking because you recognize my family name, no?”

That’s good, Luca, keep him on the hook.

“I—I’ve heard of the De Angelos, yes. And you indicated you help all kinds of people with all kinds of problems…” Mr. Randolph trails off, hoping Luca will say it for him.

“You seem like quite a successful man,” Luca offers.

“I like to think so.”

“What’s your take home? Two hundred thousand?”

“I—um, I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Just doing the math, Mr. Randolph. You’re nearly fifty. Been making good money for awhile now. Probably have a house, stock portfolio. Am I warm?”

A long pause follows, but eventually Randolph answers, “Uncomfortably warm.”

“Don’t push him too fast,” I warn through our comms.

“And you’ve been together more than ten years?” Luca asks. He’s alluding to the length of time a standard prenup lasts. After ten years, a divorced wife gets half of everything.

“Yes.”

“I can help you with your problem. The price is one year of salary. Two hundred thousand dollars.”

“What?” Mr. Randolph says. Clearly, he was expecting a lower fee.

Jack’s voice pipes through the comms, “Oh shit, guys, we have a problem. Cyrus is here. He just pulled into the garage. We have to call it off.”

“Luca?” I ask. Sometimes, all you need is a history. My one-word question says everything it needs to. Only Luca knows if he can get us where we need to be.

“Time?” Luca asks.

The question is for Jack, but Randolph doesn’t know that, so he answers. “Sometime in the next month, I should think. But I can’t do two hundred thousand. I just...can’t.”

“You’ve got sixty seconds, Luca. No more. It can’t be done. If Cyrus thinks anything is off, we’ll never get that data,” Jack reminds him.

“You never know unless you try,” Luca says, putting a hint of sheepish guilt in his voice, so it sounds like he’s still talking to Randolph. “What can I say? I’ll give you my Platinum Elite discount. Fifty thousand. In bearer bonds. The money can’t be traceable.”

A few agonizing seconds crawl by, but eventually Randolph answers, “You can make it look like an accident? It would be better if there’s no investigation.”

“Naturally,” Luca agrees.

“Then we have an agreement,” Randolph says.