The Asset

  “Thank you, Gil. Miss me?”

  “Of course. This place is never the same without you.”

  “Like Jack Nicholson in The Shining.”

  Gil laughed as he slid Kennedy’s garment bag from the back of the SUV. Aaron, the doorman, opened the tastefully gilded entrance, giving Kennedy a familiar smile.

  “Nice to see you again, sir.”

  “You too. I see you guys kept up the old dump in my absence,” Kennedy joked.

  “We managed to chase most of the rats away,” Gil flipped back as they walked into the lobby.

  “Hi, stranger,” said Julia, the front desk manager.

  She gave him a hug and an air-kiss on the cheek.

  “Welcome back—”

  Gil shot her a look.

  “I mean welcome home,” Julia corrected herself.

  “What’s with this welcome home business? Did Walmart buy you out?”

  Julia and Aaron laughed.

  “Say good night to the children,” Gil said and led Kennedy down the arched hallway.

  Kennedy preferred the Canyon Suite because its warm wood and stone interior made him feel like he was in a well-appointed cave, protected from the meat eaters outside. On that evening, the glittering sea of lights from Hollywood and West Los Angeles radiated through the wide picture windows. Gil brought a basket full of papers from the kitchenette and gently placed it on the dining table.

  “How about a drink?”

  “What’s all this?” Kennedy asked.

  “Just your mail,” Gil said somewhat tentatively as he escaped into the kitchen.

  “I can see that. How did it get here?”

  Gil emerged with a full tumbler of Japanese whiskey swirling around an ice ball.

  “Funny story that.” Gil seemed a bit nervous. “The Mailboxes n’ More down on Santa Monica, where you had your post office box, went bankrupt. And you had listed this hotel as a physical address when you were shipping something that didn’t allow PO return, so they sent everything here before they shut down.”

  “Bankrupt.” Kennedy sipped his whiskey.

  “That’s what they said. I took the liberty of putting dinner in the oven,” Gil said, attempting to change the subject.

  “The whole welcome home thing makes sense now. Looks like you figured out my dirty little secret.”

  “How do you mean?” Gil said, walking into the kitchenette.

  Kennedy followed him and leaned against the counter while Gil pulled dinner from the oven.

  “That smells unbelievable.”

  “Porterhouse steak, medium rare. Asparagus. Béarnaise on the side. Do you want to eat on the patio? The weather is still behaving reasonably.”

  Kennedy set the basket of papers down. “I should have said something about this. I hope it wasn’t any trouble.”

  “No trouble at all,” Gil said.

  “I guess I was embarrassed about not having an actual home,” Kennedy said, shooting the elephant in the room. “That’s why I told you guys I was from out of town. It’s weird, I know. Everyone should have an address, right? I did for a while—a great place in Westwood. Amazing view. But the dust, you know. After three weeks. It’s like a quarter-inch thick. And things would happen while I was gone. Water leaks, a smoke alarm the police had to shut off. My neighbors left hate mail under my door. And when you get there, it’s empty. A big fat echo. Being on the road so much, I’m just used to this, you know, hotel life. It’s more home than home was.”

  “Thank you for telling me,” Gil replied. “Of course, it’s none of my damn business, but I do appreciate the courtesy. And for what it’s worth, I think you made the right choice. Why should you have to deal with all that nonsense when we can take care of you right here? Better than you can take care of yourself, I would guess.”

  “I’ll drink to that,” Kennedy said. He poured Gil a drink and they toasted.

  Gil took dinner to the patio and set it up, then came back inside and refreshed Kennedy’s glass.

  “Is there anything else I can do for you tonight?”

  “No. Gil, this is great. The whiskey. The dinner. Not judging my weird life. Way beyond the call of duty. Thank you.”

  Kennedy reached into his pocket and Gil held up a hand.

  “Please, I deal with a universe of assholes every day, if you don’t mind me saying so. Being a real person is gratuity enough. And from now on, this is your address for as long as you like. No more dirty PO boxes. Deal?”

  “Deal,” Kennedy said, feeling the clean whiskey buzz radiate through him.

  Gil bowed slightly and headed for the door.

  “Hey, Gil,” Kennedy said, “will you marry me?”

  Gil laughed. “Hell no, you’re never home.”

  Day 3

  Good morning, I’m Nic Harcourt. Happy Friday. Welcome to the KCSN morning show. This morning I have a very special guest in the studio, Los Angeles–based singer-songwriter . . .”

  Kennedy woke up with a start, looking for the source of the noise, and realized it was coming from the hotel clock radio. He had forgotten to unplug it the night before. After years of living in hotels, he kicked himself for making such a rookie mistake. Especially since, for once, he’d been getting some sleep.

  Who uses those fucking things anymore?

  He tried to cover his head with a pillow, knowing that too much physical movement would kick his light-sleeper brain into high gear, but it didn’t work. He was wide-awake and he was not pleased.

  Kennedy eyeballed the device, a refreshed version of the archaic red-eyed monsters of the past, with convenient connectors and a hi-fi speaker, and wondered how it would look in pieces on the Saltillo tile floor. He rolled over, fully prepared to pay for the damage he was about to inflict, and the music that started coming out of it actually slowed his roll. A woman sang with acoustic guitar accompaniment and it was haunting and beautiful. She had the sweet melodic range of a soul singer with a slight rock ’n’ roll rasp that rubbed you the right way. Kennedy turned up the volume and listened intently, struck by the familiar sound but unable to place it.

  She played two more songs after that and Kennedy listened while the automatic coffeemaker in the kitchenette that Gil had programmed for him kicked on. The aroma of the freshly ground beans cleared away the cobwebs. Morning sunlight was beginning to pool optimistically in places all over the room. Inspired, he fired up an app on his phone to try to identify the singer on the radio. When he saw her name appear on his screen, he did a double take. It was Love.

  Sierra Narváez had been Kennedy’s sister Belle’s best friend in high school. They met freshman year and were instantly thick as thieves, held together by a lightning weld of common interests and a desire to subvert everything about school, youth, society, and whatever had any semblance of hypocrisy, which was just about everything in Los Angeles.

  For as long as Kennedy could remember, Sierra had been an excellent guitar player and singer and aspired to be a recording artist. Her wealthy, mixed parents—Basque father, mother from St. Croix—fostered her musical aspirations from a young age by exposing her to everything from baroque chamber music to Motown to punk. Two years after Belle died, Sierra signed with a label. She had a couple of Billboard singles at eighteen, and seemed destined for stardom, but found herself being sucked into a world of drugs, sleazy older executives with foul intentions, and artistic imprisonment. So one day she just up and quit, changed her name to Love, and started over, building her career from the ground up, on her terms. Kennedy had very little contact with her in her twenties but heard stories from old friends about how she made a few albums on indie labels, did small-club touring, and worked as a session player.

  And there she was, playing an in-studio session with Nic Harcourt, the bellwether DJ and tastemaker who’d made stars of Coldplay and Norah Jones. Hearing her voice b
rought back a flood of memories Kennedy hadn’t conjured in many years.

  “That track is off your new album, which is your first in a couple of years, right?” Nic asked.

  “Yeah, I really took my time with it. I wanted every song to be well thought out and have a life of its own. I hate the notion of B-side tracks so I work on each track as if it were going to be a single.”

  “It shows. It’s rare for me to listen to a record and not have at least one song I always skip past. But I like them all.”

  “Thank you. It’s really nice to finally get some recognition for my work . . . from the right place, that is.”

  She sounded the same. Maybe a little more mature than when they were kids, but she still had the same old charmingly smart mouth.

  “Let’s talk about that. You got a lot of recognition when you were in your late teens. Some say you walked away from a hugely successful pop career.”

  “They’re right. I did. But in that case success was defined as fame and fortune, the tails that wag the dog, as they say. I love music too much to have those things dictate how I make it. And that’s what was happening back then. Plus, a lot of nasty old farts were constantly trying to get in my pants.”

  “Sounds dreadful,” Nic said, laughing.

  “God, it was. I had to walk away because I knew if I stayed I would wind up hating myself and hating music, which just wasn’t acceptable.”

  “Is that why you changed your name to Love?”

  “Exactly. I never wanted to forget why the hell I’m doing this.”

  “So, the big question is, why haven’t I heard any of your post–pop emancipation work until now?”

  “Probably because I spend a lot more time touring than recording. To me, playing live is the reason you become a musician. And I love the vagabond life. Playing in small clubs from Miami to . . . Marrakesh, making a lot of friends along the way, living dangerously. Makes it hard to get into the studio. I produced three albums prior to this on my own label but never released them because they weren’t right. This is right.”

  “I couldn’t agree more,” Nic said. “Tell us about your gig tonight.”

  “Yeah, I’m really excited. I’m getting back to my roots down in Venice at The Sink, one of the places I played all the time when I was young and dumb.”

  “I can happily say I’ve been young and dumb there myself on a number of occasions,” Nic said. “And I will be again tonight. What time do you go on?”

  “I go on at—”

  The clock radio inexplicably shut itself off.

  “Son of a bitch!” Kennedy yelled.

  He fumbled with it, trying to turn it back on, but when he did Love was already playing another song. Kennedy went online and looked up the show, but it was sold out. He really wanted to go and thought about contacting her, but didn’t have any current information. He found her on Facebook and almost hit her up that way, but it felt weird to stalk her on social media after years of very little contact, to score a backstage pass.

  Besides, he didn’t have time for socializing. He had to get his head in the game and start working on analyzing the threat. Like an auto mechanic rebuilding an engine, he was going to disassemble everything he knew about airports and air travel and scrutinize each piece for flaws and weaknesses. He had no doubt that’s what they had done—whoever they were—and the fact that intel about the threat even existed meant they were probably well into the planning stage.

  Kennedy did his best thinking on the golf course, so he took the hotel car service to his private club in Pacific Palisades. It was still relatively early and the rest of the world had not yet invaded every square inch of asphalt in Los Angeles. When he arrived, a thin marine layer kept everything mercifully cool and shaded. Kennedy had not been to the club for nearly six months and was contented by its steady presence. His father and grandfather had been members. Golf was not just a pastime in his family; it was a religion. But Kennedy had been the only one with the talent to go pro.

  When he got out on the course, his game came back to him, energizing his muscle memory and sharpening his senses to the nuances of the track.

  Absence makes the heart grow fonder and also improves golf scores.

  Being preoccupied with the Homeland memo was the perfect way to keep his intellect out of the game and let his body do what came naturally. As he played he followed his grandfather’s advice and treated each shot like a game unto itself. This got him into a methodical groove, addressing every stroke without the distraction of results or thinking ahead. He finished the round at one under par and was only a few strokes off the average score for the middle of the field in a PGA tournament.

  Feeling refreshed and clearheaded, he ducked into the lounge for a drink, ready to focus on the memo. He ordered a cold beer and, like with his golf game, addressed the threat in a linear fashion, making sure he didn’t skip over any minuscule but important detail.

  He’d learned from his Israeli instructors that most attacks fell in the statement category. The majority of terrorists were amateurs who often lacked the resources or intelligence to pull off something profoundly damaging, like 9/11. Instead they opted for a headline. The upside of this category was that the attacks were usually smaller in scale. The downside was that they were often successful because the attacker was willing to die to carry out the plan. Like with Japanese kamikaze pilots and suicide bombers, this approach offered a major strategic advantage because of its totally unpredictable nature.

  Kennedy hadn’t gotten any new intel from Wes yet, but based on the fact that this threat had grabbed the attention of several intelligence entities, it seemed like it would turn into more than a statement. Osama bin Laden didn’t merely make headlines run red when he attacked the United States. To him it was more a military offensive designed to inflict extensive, even debilitating, damage on the target—not just the thousands of people on the planes and in the buildings, but also the whole country. Bin Laden knew that it would not only strike fear in the hearts of the “enemy,” but it would also put America on the defensive, causing us to lash out in irrational ways that increased our vulnerability. In that way, it was guerrilla warfare, a highly effective approach for the Davids of the world looking to knock Goliath on his ass.

  The only way to approach this threat was to assume it would be even bigger than 9/11. That was the nature of the beast. Whoever was planning it very likely wanted to trump all previous attacks, if not just for ego then also for impact. It was scary to think that bin Laden had weakened the United States, dividing it against itself, but that’s exactly what had happened. The toll that two wars had taken on the country, along with the political carnage that made government barely able to function in any kind of constructive way, might be the camel’s back—and someone might be thinking he had just the straw to break it.

  “For someone who just dismantled that course, your celebration skills leave a lot to be desired.”

  Kennedy looked up, startled. A slim, muscular Hispanic man in his forties, dressed impeccably in all-black golf attire, was standing next to his table. The man smiled, sharp features framing perfect white teeth. He looked like an actor or politician. As if on cue, the server dropped two neat scotches on the table.

  “Buy you one?” the man asked politely.

  “Be my guest.”

  They toasted and drank. Kennedy was not pleased about the interruption, but the fact that the man had chosen the best scotch in the bar softened the blow.

  “After I heard about your round, I saw you up on the club championship board. Eleven wins. Pretty impressive. Unheard of actually. Ever go pro?”

  “Thought about it, but—”

  “You should have. Juarez.”

  They shook hands.

  “Thanks.”

  The only thing Kennedy hated more than watching golf on television was talking about it.

 
“What’s your handicap?”

  “Five,” Kennedy lied.

  “Bullshit,” Juarez said, gently confrontational.

  “I’m not looking to team up or anything. I don’t really do club tourneys.”

  “Me neither,” Juarez said. “There just aren’t any real players around here anymore. Bunch of stuck-up gringos drinking beer in carts, which I can’t believe they even allow. No offense.”

  “None taken. I’m not a fan of the gringos either.”

  Kennedy finished his scotch, hoping that would facilitate Juarez’s exit, but the guy waved the waitress over with two more glasses before Kennedy could protest.

  “Salud,” Juarez said, raising his glass.

  “Cheers,” Kennedy said, raising his own.

  Kennedy noticed a copper bracelet on Juarez’s wrist.

  “What’s that, some kind of power band?” Kennedy asked.

  “Side business. My kid’s going to private school next year. Gringos love these things.”

  “Guaranteed to make you a scratch golfer,” Kennedy joked.

  “And improve your sex life,” Juarez flipped back. “The only cool thing is, it has sports tracker tech, like Nike FuelBand. So, people know your real handicap and don’t have to bug you about it.”

  “Two,” Kennedy said.

  “That’s more like it,” Juarez said.

  He fished another bracelet out of his pocket and handed it to Kennedy. It was brand-new, wrapped in a clear plastic sleeve.

  “I don’t have any cash—”

  “I’m not hustling you. Having the Ben Hogan of the club wear one is great advertising for me.” He laughed.