“Not sure where to go,” said our driver.

“Obviously not this way,” said Ivy.

He somehow maneuvered around stopped cars and headed north on Miami Avenue, the plan being to cut east to Biscayne on a higher cross street. It was worse. Not only were the cars immobilized, but pedestrian traffic was also jammed. We saw a sea of young people, most of them wearing bandannas over their noses and mouths, many wearing protective goggles or helmets. A few wore gas masks. Two men had climbed atop lampposts to wave red flags, one with the image of Che Guevara and the other with Mao Tse Tung. Banners and posters dotted the crowd, the messages ranging from GIVE PEACE A CHANCE to SUPPORT THE POLICE: BEAT YOURSELF UP.

“This looks bad,” said Ivy.

I got out of the car and again climbed to my perch on the doorsill, peering out over the roof.

“Michael, get back in the car!”

I heard Ivy’s warning, but I had to look. Never had I seen such a showing of police muscle. Rows of fully armored and helmeted police moved in formation, meeting the crowd of demonstrators with a line of riot shields and control batons. As police advanced, the anti-FTAA chanting intensified.

Greed kills.

Die, Asses of Evil.

Fuck the Aristocratic Assholes.

Anarchy Today, Anarchy Tomorrow, Anarchy Forever!

Demonstrators either yielded to the oncoming wave of police or were pushed back into the throbbing crowds behind them.

“There’s nowhere to go!” people shouted. “Nowhere for us to go!”

Squeezed between the surge of police and the barricades behind them, the crowd had run out of room and was growing angrier by the second. A small group at the front fell to the ground, their actions seen as resistance by club-wielding officers.

“Michael, get in here!”

It was crazy, but I was mesmerized. I saw about a dozen canisters launch in volleys from somewhere behind police lines. Tear gas. They landed in the crowd, unleashing panic. One hit a demonstrator in the head and knocked him to the sidewalk. People were soon stepping over other people, coughing and wheezing as they ran. A few held damp rags to their mouths, which eased their breathing but did nothing for the skin and eye irritation. A woman in agony ran past screaming “Pepper spray, pepper spray!” A crack of gunfire erupted, and people on the front line writhed in pain from rubber bullets, beanbags, and chemical-filled pellets. It was impossible to count the number of rounds fired, but it had to be in the hundreds. Angry youths cursed as they picked up the smoking canisters of tear gas and hurled them back at the oncoming police.

“Michael, get back inside!”

Someone grabbed me and threw me against the car. It was a man-incredibly strong-dressed all in black, a helmet protecting his head. A bandanna covered his nose and mouth, but his eyes were still visible and they were downright threatening. His knee came up and hit me in the groin, and my face was suddenly on fire with pepper spray.

“It’s only gonna get worse,” he said in a voice that chilled me, and then he was gone.

Ivy pulled me back into the car and yanked the door shut. The driver switched on the locks. I couldn’t see, and the sting was almost unbearable. Ivy had bottled water in her purse, which she poured on my face to wash away the spray.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

I blinked hard, but it would take a while to find relief.

Ivy glanced out the car window. “There’s a medic tent over there,” she said, pointing toward the courthouse on the corner.

“They actually set up medic tents?” I managed to say. Apparently Miami learned from former host cities to expect protests and injuries.

“I see people getting treated for pepper spray,” she said. “Come on, let’s go.”

She paid the cabdriver and told him to keep the change. He thanked her and handed her a business card.

“My cell number is on there,” he said. “Call me if you know anyone. Maybe it’s you, your housekeeper, your doorman. Whoever.”

“Anyone who what?” asked Ivy.

“What we were talking about,” he said. “Anyone who wants to buy a condo. I get you a killer deal on a very good pay-option, negative-amortization loan, mon.”

The expression on Ivy’s face was one of complete incredulity. “Let’s go,” she told me.

I pushed open the door. We grabbed our bags, and together we zigzagged through the crowd and confusion, stopping only when we reached the Wellness Center beneath the giant flag of Che Guevara flapping in a breeze tinged with tear gas.

IVY LAYTON WAS ABOUT TO BLOW HER BRAINS OUT. NOT LITERALLY-but sudden and certain death did seem preferable to the conversation that surrounded her. Ivy stepped away from a circle of women she didn’t care to get to know and grabbed a frozen rum runner topped with a floater of 150-proof Trinidadian spirits.

“Careful,” said the waiter holding the silver tray of cocktails. “Those be strong, love.”

Ivy smiled and thanked him. Since stepping foot on the Saxton Silvers yacht, she’d been “darlin’,” “honey,” and “love,” all of them as harmless in the islands as “mon.”

“Strong is good,” she said. And after a day like today, she really meant it. “Mon.”

Ivy and Michael had ended up returning to Miami International Airport, flying to Nassau, and catching up with the private cruise there. As far as Ivy was concerned, though, one less day with the top young producers at Saxton Silvers was a blessing. There was only one she cared to be with: Michael Cantella, a veritable rock star among the firm’s fiercely competitive under-thirty-five-year-olds. Michael had an uncanny knack for making the rich richer, which earned him seven-figure performance bonuses and plenty of free trips-South African safaris, New Zealand wine and adventure tours, and other five-star destinations around the globe, none of which he could fit into his relentless schedule. But this time was different. He had made a point of planning their first trip out of New York together after dating for three months. Ivy had been excited about it-until tonight. Michael didn’t know it, but if she had to spend one more cocktail hour on deck with the spouses and significant others while the Wall Street wonders smoked Cohiba cigars with the captain on the bridge, either she or Michael was going over the ship’s rail.

She hoped he wasn’t too drunk to swim.

“Did you hear about Dwight Holden?” asked Shannon Ware, one of the wives.

Here we go again, thought Ivy. Shannon was married to a high roller in the L.A. office who, according to Michael, owned more sports cars, more jewelry, more high-end toys than any human being should ever own-in short, the worst damn case of “affluenza” on record. Ivy had known Mr. Affluenza’s better half for only twenty minutes, and Shannon had already earned the title “World’s Biggest Gossip/World’s Smallest Brain.” The five other wives in the circle were riveted.

“Do tell,” said the tall blonde.

“Totally blew up,” said Shannon.

“No!”

“Yup,” said Shannon, snapping her fingers. “Just like that.”

“I thought Dwight was set for life and on track to retire before his fortieth birthday.”

“Was,” said Shannon. “Apparently the boy wonder wasn’t quite ready to cut the cord with the mother ship and manage his own hedge fund. Their house went on the market last week. Total fire sale. Only listing on the water under ten million.”

“Poor Gwen. Where are they moving to?”

Shannon lowered her voice, as if this part were particularly delicious. “I hear they’re moving in with her parents.”

“NO!” said blondie.

Ivy rolled her eyes. Somehow she knew it wasn’t true-worse, Ivy would have bet that even Shannon knew it was just a vicious rumor.

“Where is it?” asked another.

“It’s some little town…” Shannon cringed, as if it pained her not to have every juicy detail at her command. “Oh, hell, I know this. It’s-shit, how’s a left-coast girl supposed to know? It’s like…Gonorrheaville. But not Gonorrheaville.”