"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.
"If you have any idea of how much tourist money flows through this city each week, you wouldn't believe it. But that's not all, damnit. Jackson is raking off millions each year from his girls and gives a pittance to the right people and a few charities, justifying his position as a man of good standing.
"Miami could live more than well enough off of legitimate tourist money and taxes, but people like Jackson are ruining it. And I'll be Goddamned if I'm going to raise my kids in a town that will turn to filth if it isn't stopped!"
At Jeff's "children" Pamela awoke from her dreams of the winter ball. She and Jeff both wanted children, but the problem for her was the sexual intercourse. Pamela thought she enjoyed it with Jeff, but surely not as much as he did. Her mother had told her all about the ugly things that men had done to women, and Pamela had subconsciously hidden the words, but not the feelings. She felt that more than once a week was excessive, even though Jeff demanded more. She knew that once they had a baby they could cut down on their sexual activity and he wouldn't object.
"I just wish you would come out of the clouds and try to understand," he almost pleaded with her. "Too many people have ignored the problem for too long, and if they continue there's just no telling what might happen."
"Jeff, I do try to understand, but are you sure you're on the right track?"
Jeff sighed and shrugged his shoulders. It's no use, he thought as he got up from the table and went to the closet for his jacket. It's not her fault she doesn't understand, but for Christ's sake…
"Have a good day," she said as she kissed him softly on the cheek, her right arm holding his waist.
"You, too," he replied and walked out the door toward his car.
Why can't they all understand, he thought as he pulled out of the driveway. The city's businesses and a few money hungry men are either too afraid or too greedy to do something about Jackson, and the rest of them are like Pam. If she and her friends at the country club could see some of the things I have seen at night, they might change their minds.
Jeff kept driving toward the office where he would put in an appearance before continuing to follow more leads that he had gotten the night before. He thought about his wife and her archaic idea that no one with money could be bad. If only he could convince her without shocking her too much. The conventions could be the answer, and the most important of all conventions, the National Republican Party Convention, was in town. If he were to take Pamela with him that evening she could see what happens afterwards in hotel rooms, or at least in the bars. But then, it might be too much too soon. There must be something to make her see, but what?