Turning Point by John Francis Kinsella
Perhaps the Caribbean would be a good place, he figured, not far from Miami, on one of those island where you could live like a king, especially with a few million pounds in the bank. He remembered Karen, the Romford stall owner he had met in Kovalam, she had spoken of her dad who lived in the Dominican Republic, or was it Dominica, maybe it would be worth checking out.
Barton did not know whether the travel agent was trying to sell him an expensive ticket or not, but it seemed complicated trying to get from New York to Roseau, which he had just learnt was the capital of the small island nation of Dominica. It appeared there was no other option than to fly to San Juan in Porto Rico or Miami, then pick up an island hopping flight. Finally Barton plumped for Miami, that was where property was really going down the drain, and besides he could finally get a look at that destination greatly favoured by many Brits and their families during the boom years.
Checking the travel agent’s map of the Caribbean he saw that Dominica lay between the French islands of Martinique and Guadeloupe, from where he was informed there were daily high-speed boat services from Pointe-à-Pitre in Guadeloupe to Roseau. A couple of days in Miami would suffice he figured, from there he could take the regular Air France flight to Pointe-à-Pitre.
Three days later, seated in first class section of an early American Airlines flight to Miami, he thumbed through the New York Times and the Wall Street Journal. The economic situation was beginning to look bad, but the press was pinning its hopes on the presidential candidate Barack Obama. Barton doubted Obama, if elected, could do much to get the country out of the dire economic situation it had got itself into. Property prices had gone into reverse and the stock market had fallen twenty percent since the beginning of the year.
Palm Beach and Ocean Drive were the places where it was all supposed to happen in Miami, it was why he had chosen Loews, a palatial hotel situated between Collins Avenue and the ocean that lived up to his Palm Beach expectations. Miami was certainly different to New York. It was quieter, that was to be expected, it was hot, humid and the hurricane months were approaching.
After checking-in he armed himself with the Miami Herald and a handful of brochures then headed for the coffee shop to orient himself before setting off to explore Miami Beach. The newspaper headlines announced more repossessions and a set of new laws intended to get tough on crooked mortgage brokers.
After checking the beach he set off down Collins towards Ocean Drive and the Art Deco district, where like so many visitors he paused at Casa Casuarina, the mansion where Gianni Versace had died, now transformed into a luxury restaurant. He joined a throng of gawking tourists many of whom were busy taking photographs of other tourists going in for lunch.
Versace, after a casual stroll in the Miami sunshine had returned home to his palatial art deco mansion, a couple of fashion magazines tucked under his arm. He was gunned down on the steps by a gay prostitute; two shots, one to the head and the other to the neck. Stories of Miami violence, drug trafficking and mafia mobsters did not very reassure Barton. Versace’s killer committed suicide in a Miami houseboat where he had been hiding. At least that was the official story; the latest theory suggested the fashion designer had been killed by a mafia hitman.
Ocean Drive lived up to its image; palm trees, bikini clad girls on rollers, Ferraris, and Miami Beach’s many strange denizens. After an hour’s walk Barton paused for lunch, opting for the terrace of an Italian restaurant, a tourist trap, but with a grandstand view of passing local life. He ordered a paella topped with crayfish, not very Italian, but it was good, accompanied by a carafe of chilled Californian rosé.
Reinforced by the lunch, and the wine, he set off again, northwards. A couple of blocks from Loews he stopped before the window of a luxurious sales office. A large scale architect’s maquette announced a newly built forty five floor condominium. Ideally located on Collins, the Villa Capri overlooked the ocean offering its privileged owners direct access to the beach.
Barton pushed the door and introducing himself as a prospective buyer, was given a virtual tour of the condominium. Tami, the not unattractive agent, proposed a visit to the show apartment.
The spacious fourteenth floor five room apartment was ideally situated on the south east corner of the condo, its balconies overlooking the ocean and beach. It featured two large bedrooms with ensuite bathrooms; the master bathroom with a Jacuzzi, a designer gourmet kitchen with ‘European’ appliances and marble fittings. A round the clock concierge service was provided with video surveillance, valet services, securized underground parking, a heated pool and a gymnasium.
‘The asking price is one million four hundred thousand dollars,’ announced Tami.
There was a moment of silence.
‘We’d be prepared to consider a reasonable offer,’ she added before Barton had time to think of a suitable replique.
‘Does one million sound reasonable,’ he asked after some moments of silence.
‘I can speak to my manager.’
He nodded as though in reflection.
‘Where are you staying?’
‘At Loews.’
‘How long for?’
‘A few days.’
‘You’re British aren’t you?’
‘Yes, I live in New York at the moment and thinking of moving to Miami for my work,’ Barton lied.
‘Well, we’re at your service Mr Barton.’
It took a couple of days to confirm prices in the Miami area had all but collapsed, there were few buyers and sellers were desperate to sell at any price. To Barton’s mind Miami seemed too far removed from his way of thinking, like Bangkok, strangely surreal, another world, in spite of the common language shared with Americans. After exploring Miami’s better residential districts Coconut Grove and the North Bay area he concluded it was fine a break, but not the kind of place to live.
August
Dominica
Barton did not know whether the travel agent was trying to sell him an expensive ticket or not, but it seemed complicated trying to get from New York to Roseau, which he had just learnt was the capital of the small island nation of Dominica. It appeared there was no other option than to fly to San Juan in Porto Rico or Miami, then pick up an island hopping flight. Finally Barton plumped for Miami, that was where property was really going down the drain, and besides he could finally get a look at that destination greatly favoured by many Brits and their families during the boom years.
Checking the travel agent’s map of the Caribbean he saw that Dominica lay between the French islands of Martinique and Guadeloupe, from where he was informed there were daily high-speed boat services from Pointe-à-Pitre in Guadeloupe to Roseau. A couple of days in Miami would suffice he figured, from there he could take the regular Air France flight to Pointe-à-Pitre.
Three days later, seated in first class section of an early American Airlines flight to Miami, he thumbed through the New York Times and the Wall Street Journal. The economic situation was beginning to look bad, but the press was pinning its hopes on the presidential candidate Barack Obama. Barton doubted Obama, if elected, could do much to get the country out of the dire economic situation it had got itself into. Property prices had gone into reverse and the stock market had fallen twenty percent since the beginning of the year.
Palm Beach and Ocean Drive were the places where it was all supposed to happen in Miami, it was why he had chosen Loews, a palatial hotel situated between Collins Avenue and the ocean that lived up to his Palm Beach expectations. Miami was certainly different to New York. It was quieter, that was to be expected, it was hot, humid and the hurricane months were approaching.
After checking-in he armed himself with the Miami Herald and a handful of brochures then headed for the coffee shop to orient himself before setting off to explore Miami Beach. The newspaper headlines announced more repossessions and a set of new laws intended to get tough on crooked mortgage brokers.
After checking the beach he set off down Collins towards Ocean Drive and the Art Deco district, where like so many visitors he paused at Casa Casuarina, the mansion where Gianni Versace had died, now transformed into a luxury restaurant. He joined a throng of gawking tourists many of whom were busy taking photographs of other tourists going in for lunch.
Versace, after a casual stroll in the Miami sunshine had returned home to his palatial art deco mansion, a couple of fashion magazines tucked under his arm. He was gunned down on the steps by a gay prostitute; two shots, one to the head and the other to the neck. Stories of Miami violence, drug trafficking and mafia mobsters did not very reassure Barton. Versace’s killer committed suicide in a Miami houseboat where he had been hiding. At least that was the official story; the latest theory suggested the fashion designer had been killed by a mafia hitman.
Ocean Drive lived up to its image; palm trees, bikini clad girls on rollers, Ferraris, and Miami Beach’s many strange denizens. After an hour’s walk Barton paused for lunch, opting for the terrace of an Italian restaurant, a tourist trap, but with a grandstand view of passing local life. He ordered a paella topped with crayfish, not very Italian, but it was good, accompanied by a carafe of chilled Californian rosé.
Reinforced by the lunch, and the wine, he set off again, northwards. A couple of blocks from Loews he stopped before the window of a luxurious sales office. A large scale architect’s maquette announced a newly built forty five floor condominium. Ideally located on Collins, the Villa Capri overlooked the ocean offering its privileged owners direct access to the beach.
Barton pushed the door and introducing himself as a prospective buyer, was given a virtual tour of the condominium. Tami, the not unattractive agent, proposed a visit to the show apartment.
The spacious fourteenth floor five room apartment was ideally situated on the south east corner of the condo, its balconies overlooking the ocean and beach. It featured two large bedrooms with ensuite bathrooms; the master bathroom with a Jacuzzi, a designer gourmet kitchen with ‘European’ appliances and marble fittings. A round the clock concierge service was provided with video surveillance, valet services, securized underground parking, a heated pool and a gymnasium.
‘The asking price is one million four hundred thousand dollars,’ announced Tami.
There was a moment of silence.
‘We’d be prepared to consider a reasonable offer,’ she added before Barton had time to think of a suitable replique.
‘Does one million sound reasonable,’ he asked after some moments of silence.
‘I can speak to my manager.’
He nodded as though in reflection.
‘Where are you staying?’
‘At Loews.’
‘How long for?’
‘A few days.’
‘You’re British aren’t you?’
‘Yes, I live in New York at the moment and thinking of moving to Miami for my work,’ Barton lied.
‘Well, we’re at your service Mr Barton.’
It took a couple of days to confirm prices in the Miami area had all but collapsed, there were few buyers and sellers were desperate to sell at any price. To Barton’s mind Miami seemed too far removed from his way of thinking, like Bangkok, strangely surreal, another world, in spite of the common language shared with Americans. After exploring Miami’s better residential districts Coconut Grove and the North Bay area he concluded it was fine a break, but not the kind of place to live.
August
Dominica