Richard Van Dorne - Ravished wife

He made enough money to get by, and though his mother was out of the hospital, she could not work at all, forcing him to support the whole family. Sammy was smart enough, though, to make deals with the syndicate, and keep himself out of trouble with them. But soon, his take was reduced further and further as the syndicate took a larger and larger percentage of his illicit earnings.

The bastards, Sammy thought, as he wiped the catsup off his chin and reached for another cigarette. They had forced him to expand further until he was carrying a pistol and planning robberies. Finally, just a week before his twenty-second birthday, Sammy and two friends held up a jewelry store in broad daylight.

They didn't have a chance. One was shot leaving, the store, and the other was tackled by a burly policeman. Sammy had run for blocks before he stopped. Time had ran out for him and he had to leave town.

That's what did it, he thought angrily, a lousy jewelry store stick-up and I'm forced out of town like a hunted animal. He didn't think his friends would tell who he was, but he couldn't have taken the chance.

On the train out of Chicago he had read a tourist's add for the glamorous city of Miami. It was there he had thought he could make a fresh start.

Fresh start, bull! he thought as he left the restaurant. Wade Jackson gave me a fresh start alright, a fresh start on crime.

Sammy had met Wade on his first night in Miami two weeks ago. The pair had a good time with a couple of Wade's girlfriends, and Sammy thought he was a pretty fair sport. It was only after Sammy had told him that he needed a job that he discovered Wade's true business.

But after all, it was a job, and for the time being, Sammy needed the money.

Wade Jackson's enterprise enveloped every hotel and nearly all the motels in Miami. Miami, the convention city, had more tourists and conventioneers than any one man could handle, but Wade made the effort anyway. He controlled the lives of over a hundred prostitutes in every part of the city. They catered strictly within certain areas, and each was expected to make a quota of "tricks" each week, some more than others. Often Wade's contacts made the arrangements for the girls, but many were on their own. They were all carefully watched and had to account for every cent they were suspected of making. If they didn't make quota, or held out some of the money, they were dealt with severely.

A few of the girls knew each other, meeting at some of Wade's 'specially arranged parties, but no one person know enough to really hurt the organization.

Sammy, himself, had already come into contact with twenty-one of the girls; he was a collector. Each week he was responsible to pick up twenty-five thousand dollars in cash from his twenty-five girls, his reward being one percent of the take, which came to a nice round two hundred and fifty dollars a week. In a few months he would be able to quit and find something else, including different restaurants to eat in.

But for now, he had four more collections to make before his first week on the job was finished. He looked at the addresses in his notebook and started the car. With luck he could be finished in two hours.

"Breakfast is ready," Pamela Lee called up the stairs.

Jeff didn't answer his wife's call, but walked down the stairs, stopping for a moment in front of a mirror to straighten his tie. At forty he already had a distinguishing streak of grey at his temples that offset his youthful-looking face. He thought that the grey was one of his rewards for being the managing editor of one of Miami's largest newspapers. His professionalism had earned him an impeccable reputation across the country, as well as in the city, a reputation he sometimes regretted.

"Hi, Honey," he greeted his wife as he entered the dining room, and looked at her admiringly.

Though ten years younger than her husband, Pamela made an almost perfect wife. She loved her husband as much as he loved her, and focused all of her concern around him and their life together.

They had met in Washington, had dated for nearly a year before they were married. And each day of the past three years had been good to them both, even through the small quarrels that all married people suffer.

Pamela ensured good food, a clean house and good company for her husband without fail. Only one point of friction remained between them. Her concern for social acceptance. She felt it proper that they be a part of the same circle of socially elite people that she had known before they were married. She had argued that it was important for his work, but he countered that he didn't give a damn. Pamela knew it irritated him, but thought she was right and would not relent, though she tried not to bring the subject into conversation too often. She hoped to convert him by a soft-sell technique.

But society pages were the furthest from Jeff's mind as he sat at the table and unfolded his napkin. For more than two years, ever since he had been offered the job in Miami, Jeff had been occupied by one thought: prostitution.

He examined his poached egg and began to eat. His morning occupation consisted of scanning his own paper's night edition, then his competitors' products, making mental notes of errors in each between bites of breakfast.

"Hmmf," he grunted after he finished and picked up his coffee cup. There had been nothing of any consequence in any of the papers, with the exception of the editorials in his own. I wish no news were really good news, he thought.

Every morning Pamela watched him read the papers and wolf down his breakfast, while she sat silently across from him. She knew that he didn't want to be disturbed, and so never said anything until he finished reading and gave his usual, "Hmmf." She knew now, that he was ready for conversation.

"What's the matter, Jeff," she asked as she did every morning.

"The same old thing," he replied, not really wanting to talk.

"How's your other work going then," she asked, slightly annoyed by his curt answer.

"Don't get me started on that so early," he answered her, not wanting to get into an argument. Pamela would always listen, he thought, but it all goes right over her head. She was too naive to believe that anything like organized prostitution would take place in Miami.

"Please," she asked, "I want to know."

"Alright," he said, "You asked for it. Yesterday I finally got a name. Not just any name, but the name of the head of this organization that you don't think exists."

Pamela looked at him attentively, though she didn't really care about the so-called syndicate because she had made up her mind that there was no such thing.

"Ready for a shock," he continued. "Try Wade Jackson."

Pamela uttered an audible gasp and for a moment was stunned. Then it came to her; he was only joking, and she began to laugh.

"Think it's funny?" he asked, his brow furrowed in growing anger.

"But Jeff, he's no criminal. Why-why Wade Jackson donates thousands of dollars to charities each year. I ought to know, I'm on enough committees. Wade Jackson, really!"

Just like a woman, Jeff thought. Totally illogical, and won't believe anything she doesn't want to.

"He's not the only one," he told her. "Why do you think none of the money in town will give me any support?"

But Pamela wasn't listening. If Jeff was going to behave like this, then she wouldn't hear a word he said. After all, men like Wade Jackson don't give money to the needy and helpless, then turn around and operate prostitution rings. It was too ridiculous to even consider.

But Jeff had started, and nothing would stop him until he was finished. "Most of your precious society friends who have any political or business control don't want me to stop Jackson. I've seen every one possible, and only one will help. Of course, they won't say no, but they won't help either.