You're Dead Without Money

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With the temperature down to sub-zero and snow piling up on the sidewalks, to me New York had become a hole in the head. I longed for the sun. I hadn’t been to Paradise City for two years and I now had the itch to relax in the comfort and luxury of the Spanish Bay hotel — the best hotel on the Florida Coast.

I had sold a couple of shorties to the New Yorker and my last novel had been third on the bestseller list for the past six months so I didn’t have to worry about money. Looking out of my window at the grey sky, the snow and watching people moving around like ants far below me in a freezing wind gave me the incentive to reach for the telephone.

A telephone can be a miracle of convenience. You get an idea and the telephone will turn that idea into a reality — always providing you have money. I had money, so in a few minutes I was speaking to Jean Dulac who runs the Spanish Bay hotel at Paradise City. In another few minutes, a room with a balcony that caught ten hours of sunshine per day and overlooking the sea was reserved for me.

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