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Victor Lee's victory in the second round served as a springboard, propelling him directly into the dazzling spotlight.
In the next two matches, Lady Luck seemed to be particularly kind to this Asian boxer—he no longer encountered formidable opponents like "Siberian Bear" Ivanov or "Iron Hammer" Johnson who could penetrate Viktor's fleshy frame.
Most enemies were helpless against Viktor's fleshy body. Once Viktor charged at them with his fleshy explosives, they were knocked to the ground by a series of punches.
In the third round, when facing a police boxer from Detroit, Victor knocked out his opponent in the second round with a mediocre right hook. The unremarkable nature of that punch led the front-row audience to unanimously believe that the police boxer had been bribed.
Because it's not outrageous for Chicago police to take bribes; it would be outrageous if they didn't. But the broken ribs of the police boxer are undeniable.
In the fourth round, Mexican fighter Carlos Mendoza put up a tenacious fight like a cactus, but under Victor's relentless barrage of punches, the referee had to stop the fight in the third round. When Mendoza's nosebleed splattered on the referee's striped shirt, and when he aimlessly threw punches at the referee, the TKO decision was no longer in doubt.
This series of overwhelming victories made Victor Lee's name spread like wildfire in the Southern Boxing Circle.
Chicago Boxing Weekly devoted a full page to a feature story on the rising star, with the headline "Far East Tiger" accompanied by a high-speed photograph of him throwing a punch—the beads of sweat in the photo looked like diamond dust under the spotlight.
On the local sports radio station's "Midnight Boxing Talk" program, the host imitated Victor's signature gliding step, a move typical of fat men, and jokingly called him "Chinatown Destroyer." This nickname appeared on the neon signs of bars in the South End the next day.
Even more surprisingly, the sporting goods store across from Old Jack's training facility suddenly launched a limited edition red training glove. The 'Victor Lee' signature in gold foil on the leather made the glove sell out on the day of its release.
Viktor himself was puzzled; when had he given the authorization?
Before I even asked, the Chinese gang had already delivered their share of the profits.
"A total of $1,700," Franky said smugly, puffing on a cheap cigar. "Victor, you're already a key figure in our organization's money laundering! From now on, you just need to say the word, and we'll give you whatever amount you need!"
Victor could not refuse, nor did he need to—the Emerald Dragon had already blocked other gangs from coveting it.
When Viktor stormed into the top ten, several scouts from the Chicago Boxing League began to appear frequently at his matches like ghosts.
The league's vice president, Marcus—the Southern gentleman who always wore a bespoke three-piece suit—once made a point of walking through the cheering crowd to the locker room after a match to slip his gold-embossed business card into Victor's sweaty boxing gloves.
"Young man, my personal number is on this."
He lowered his voice, glancing out of the corner of his eye at Foucault, whose face was grim at the locker room door.
The news spread like wildfire in the South, making Foucault and Jack Firth restless in their training center office.
"Damn it! They're like sharks that smell blood."
Old Jack paced back and forth in his office, which was covered with boxing magazines, like a caged beast. He almost crushed the Cuban cigar in his hand into dust, and the ash fell in a flurry onto the faded Persian carpet. "That old fox Marcus is best at poaching people with luxury cars and blank checks."
Foucault silently polished Viktor's custom-made boxing gloves, his rough fingertips repeatedly tracing the cracks in the leather.
“Marcus has given him a spot in the Chicago Golden Gloves and guaranteed him resources. You know, it’s one of the oldest amateur boxing tournaments in the United States. The Chicago division holds qualifying tournaments every year, and the winners advance to the national championships. We’ve already given Reggie our spot!”
The red numbers on the digital clock on the wall showed six o'clock in the afternoon, but he could still hear the muffled thuds of sandbags being hit downstairs—Victor was doing extra training.
This realization made him frown even more. He knew better than anyone that once Victor was signed by the major leagues, their small, dilapidated club would forever lose this star who was rewriting the history of Chicago boxing.
To make matters worse, the expiration date of the contract on his desk was fast approaching like a time bomb—only eighty-nine days left.
"That child knows what's important."
Foucault finally spoke, his voice sounding as if squeezed out of a rusty iron pipe.
He looked out the window and saw Victor's silhouette dancing with the lob, each jab leaving a silver trail in the mist.
"However, old Jack."
He crushed the beer can in his hand. "You have to tell me, what exactly does he need?"
What does he need?
Old Jack spread his hands: "Foucault, why are you lying to yourself? He needs fair treatment, he's number one at Foucault Boxing Gym."
It's a position that's in the open!
Foucault was deeply conflicted.
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Meanwhile, Victor is surrounded by more and more flashing lights and temptations.
One evening after a heavy rain, he found an unfamiliar black Mercedes-Benz S600 parked outside the training hall as he finished training. The rainwater on the paint gave it a liquid metallic sheen.
As he dragged his weary body closer, the bulletproof car window slowly rolled down, revealing the face of Ray Cortez, the chief scout of the Chicago Boxing League, divided by neon lights.
"I heard you like Soviet steel?"
The Brazilian, known for his iron fist, handed over two gold-embossed concert tickets, the piano key designs gleaming alluringly in the twilight. "The Berlin Philharmonic is coming next week, and my box needs a knowledgeable partner."
On the leather seats in the back, there was a contract folder with the Alliance logo, its gold thread embroidery faintly visible under the streetlights.
Viktor was extremely grateful, but ultimately declined, saying, "My mentor is old Jack."
"Is this your official answer?"
"This was a fairly formal answer before old Jack explicitly rejected me."
Ray Cortez remained silent for a moment, then smiled broadly: "I am very sorry for your answer, but I have even more faith in your character, and I look forward to our next meeting."
Victor thanked him, saying, "If I have nowhere to go, I hope you can take me in."
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Victor brought in Michael and Jason.
"I think we can continue."
"How? The league's penalties for attacks on amateur boxers are quite severe! They won't accept any cash cows."
"Naturally, it is a reasonable and legal means."
“Reggie lost a lot of money, at least six thousand dollars, and his credit card should be due soon.”
"A bank is a good option."
"But he will definitely find the money."
"Make his financial situation more accessible."
"How to do it?"
"He seems to have an illegitimate child. But that woman is stupid and needs someone to teach her."
“Great, I have someone who is perfect for this.”
"Frank Gallagher! He really likes single women with stable incomes."
"this is a good idea."
“It’s settled then, Michael. There’s white powder in his bag, something the Chicago Police Department probably doesn’t know yet.”
Jason, help me find a 'volunteer' to cheer Reggie up.
Michael and Jason nodded in agreement and then left.
Victor tapped the tray and walked into the Allebi bar—and sure enough, he saw Frank, a regular player.
Chapter 25 Insidious and Vicious Off-Field Tactics
The nights in Chicago's South Side always have a unique restlessness, with the air filled with the smell of cheap beer and barbecue, occasionally punctuated by gunshots and the wail of sirens.
When Victor pushed open the creaking wooden door of the Allebi bar, the cacophony inside nearly made him stumble.
"Victor! The Far East's Fat Tiger is here!"
Someone shouted first, and the whole bar instantly erupted in cheers.
More than twenty pairs of eyes turned to the doorway in unison, and Victor could feel the admiration, jealousy, and scheming in those gazes.
He was wearing his signature work clothes, with a band-aid under his left eye—letting them know that being 'injured' might have a unique effect.
He grinned, revealing his canine teeth.
"My treat to drinks tonight!"
Victor waved his hand, his voice drowning out the blues music playing from the old jukebox in the bar, "A draft beer for everyone!"
Bartender Kevin whistled and began dragging half a dozen kegs of draft beer out from under the bar.
He was a rough businessman and a careless husband; "Our new South District boxing champion is really generous,"
Kevin smiled and wiped his hands with a towel. "It's forty-five US dollars."
Victor pulled a wad of crumpled banknotes from his pocket and slapped them on the bar, the top twenty-yuan note still stained with a little blood.
"It's nothing,"
He shrugged. "The prize money from last week's game is enough to treat the entire South District to a round of drinks."
Kevin pressed his advantage: "Then you absolutely have to treat us to a meal at my bar!"
"Hahaha! Definitely!"
Kevin glanced at the bandage on Victor's face and then left.
But Victor waited there—there's a classic movie called *The Godfather*, which even Lee Seung-ri, who smashed the sledgehammer, had seen. It contains a classic line:
Anyone who asks this question is a traitor.
Sure enough, in a corner of the bar, Frank Gallagher looked up from the card table, his cloudy blue eyes gleaming cunningly in the dim light.
Frank, the most unreliable member of the Gallagher family, asked, "Victor, what happened to your face?"
Viktor saw the big fish walk right into his trap and laughed loudly: "It was just a small scratch! How much did you win?"
"I don't have much capital."
Frank raised his glass of whiskey. "I heard you beat the 'Polish Hammer' so badly that even his own mother wouldn't recognize it?"
Victor took the whiskey Kevin offered and walked toward Frank's table.
"That kid's fists are really hard,"
He took a sip of his drink, the amber liquid burning his throat. "But he only has one chin. His pointed chin may be alluring, but it can't stop my hammer-like fist!"
Kevin leaned closer with his wine glass in hand and lowered his voice, "Seriously, Victor, do you have any inside information about the top ten round-robin tournament the day after tomorrow?"
He rubbed his fingers together, making a counting motion, "Last time I listened to you and bet on you to win, and I earned three months' rent."
Viktor looked around to make sure no one he shouldn't be listening was present, then leaned forward—important things couldn't be said, and unimportant things were useless to say, so he could say inspiring slogans.
He could smell the mixture of cologne and fried onions on Kevin, as well as the smell of marijuana coming from Frank's side.