socalfunplaces Page 48
Page 48
Jimmy whistled, "Wow, this is exciting. Are we going to become blackmailers?"
"It's not extortion."
Viktor shook his head, though he knew he was rationalizing a plan that was clearly overstepping its bounds. “Just another insurance policy. To make sure he really helps us, and not just goes through the motions.”
The three remained silent for a while, each lost in their own weighing of morality and opportunity.
Finally, Ethan's technical knowledge broke the silence: "I know where to find a camera that can take such clear pictures, and I can get one."
"Neither of them will be at Ubelman's house, nor anywhere else,"
Michael added, "They should usually be at the hotel. I'll go find out where Upelman usually goes!"
Viktor felt nauseous, but more than that, he felt excited.
In the boxing ring, the rules are clear and the referees are fair.
But in the real world, the game of power is dirty and complicated, and they are about to step into that quagmire.
The three began to refine their plan.
"We need to divide the work."
Michael pulled out a piece of paper. "Ethan is in charge of the technical equipment, I'll handle surveillance and intelligence, and Victor... never mind, your size is a problem."
Victor nodded.
"What if... what if Veronica is actually innocent?"
Ethan suddenly asked, "What if she and the senator are really just ordinary friends?"
Victor and Michael exchanged a glance. They both knew the possibility was extremely slim, but the very act of asking the question revealed Ethan's moral concerns.
"Then let's delete the video and pretend nothing happened."
Viktor said, but he knew that once he stepped onto this path, there was no turning back.
Just like a foul in the boxing ring—once it's committed, no matter how valid the reason, it doesn't change the fact that it's a violation.
As night deepened, the three parted ways.
Michael acted overnight, immediately lying in wait next to Veronica.
Ethan, on the other hand, went to the black market to find the right thing.
Just two days later, Michael and Ethan obtained the graphic photos of Congressman Ubelman. The three of them looked at them for two hours, and Michael laughed and said, "Veronica really knows how to train people."
Victor had come to terms with it and was now only looking at the photos of Congressman Ubelman—all the photos from when he entered the hotel to when he left.
That's strange, it's not in the office.
Chapter 39 The Confidence Given by 1000 Pounds
On Christmas Eve, Viktor received a letter from Gallagher, who was at West Point.
The letter contained Carl's information about where his money was buried. After Victor retrieved the money, he found it contained more than $25,000.
Viktor was surprised by the amount, but after taking three thousand dollars, he buried the rest back in.
After handing the money to Franky, Franky still asked, quite displeased:
"Any news about Fiona?"
Frankie was naturally very unhappy. Even with the $1,000 in interest, the resentment of being fooled lingered.
"She promised Carl two thousand dollars. And he's been dragging his feet for a whole month!!"
This is something that can't be helped.
Carl wanted to break away from the gang, but the black gang wouldn't allow it, so Fiona found Michael and wanted to find Frankie through him, promising him three thousand dollars.
However, Fiona only paid the first thousand dollars and left, leaving Michael and Frankie to find Carl.
"No. She packed her bags last November, leaving only a note saying she was going to Los Angeles, along with a large sum of money, but Lip and the others were unwilling to hand it over."
Viktor listened without saying a word, gazing into the distance, recalling that girl...woman who always had a cigarette in her mouth and a stubborn look in her eyes.
The South District couldn't confine her, just as it can't confine herself now.
This one thing was indeed unethical, and it almost caused Franky to storm into the Gallagher's house with a Chicago typewriter.
······
On New Year's Day in 1984, Victor knocked on Old Joe's door with two bottles of whiskey.
The door was opened by Joe's youngest daughter, Emily, who was only four years old. She was a beautiful and adorable little girl, and her eyes lit up when she saw Victor: "Daddy! Fatty brother is here!"
Old Joe poked his head out of the kitchen, his apron covered in flour: "Perfect timing, come help me finish this turkey!"
My aunt was making dumplings on the side—she was from the north, had gone to Taiwan, and then traveled all the way to America. She showed neither joy nor displeasure at seeing Viktor, since her son was with him anyway.
That night, Victor sat at the Joe family's dining table, surrounded by warm laughter and the aroma of food.
When Emily hung the homemade Christmas stocking above his bed, he realized for the first time that he had a new family in the city.
"Hey, what are you spacing out for?"
Jimmy's voice brought Victor back to reality, "Want to go check out the laundromat? I'm about to buy it, just like you suggested."
Viktor shook his head: "Next time. We need to get into shape and start training to withstand blows tomorrow."
Jimmy whistled: "The Chicago qualifiers? I heard the winners go to Las Vegas for the national finals."
Viktor didn't answer, but his eyes said it all.
Months of intensive training, jogging starting at 5 a.m. every day, tens of thousands of punches to the sandbag, Old Jack's almost abusive training methods—all of this was for one opportunity.
······
As winter fades and spring arrives, the snow in Chicago's South Side gradually melts, revealing asphalt roads blackened by salt and coal ash.
February 1985 arrived quietly with a damp and chilly spring breeze. Primroses on the street corner stubbornly sprouted from the cracks, announcing the arrival of another spring.
Victor Lee stood in front of the full-length mirror at the Foucault Boxing Gym, wiping his sweaty neck with a towel.
The man in the mirror was completely different from the bloated, fat pig from the South District he had been five months ago.
His shoulders were as broad as a wall, his pectoral muscles stretched his white vest taut, the veins on his arms bulged like winding rivers, his legs were like stone pillars, his chest and abdomen were a single, integrated mass of three muscle groups that were somewhat frightening, and although his belly was still protruding, the fat that used to be there had become incredibly firm.
What is most striking are his eyes—once small due to his obesity, now sharp as an eagle's, gleaming with an almost dangerous light.
Even the original three-layered chin disguise has become a single piece, and the constant head and neck raising training has made the neck thick and strong.
"371 pounds, two pounds heavier than last week."
Old Jack's voice came from behind. This fifty-six-year-old man, who was about to turn fifty-seven, held a notebook in his hand, and had a pair of all-seeing eyes under his gray eyebrows.
Viktor turned around, sweat dripping down his jawline onto the floor.
"Muscle mass has increased,"
He patted his stomach, which was as hard as a steel plate, and said, "My body fat percentage has dropped to 21%."
"We can't lower it any further, otherwise it will affect our ability to withstand blows."
Old Jack snorted and tossed him a pair of boxing gloves: "Enough talk, today we're testing your punching power."
Viktor skillfully put on his boxing gloves and walked toward the force gauge hanging in the corner.
He took a deep breath, recalling everything Old Jack had taught him over the past four months—how to transfer the power of his entire body from his feet to his fists, how to rotate his torso like wringing a towel, and how to concentrate all his explosive power in his knuckles at the last moment.
The pointer on the force gauge swung violently before finally settling at 990 pounds.
"Damn it, your strength training is like Kennedy's scandal—it never ends!"
Old Jack muttered, but couldn't hide the smile on his face, "Your punch could kill a bull. Even boxing champions don't have much power to deliver a punch like that!"
Viktor flicked his wrist: "Hitting a living person will dilute some of the power."
"Don't make excuses,"
Old Jack smacked him on the back of the head with his notebook. "The Chicago qualifiers are next month. I don't want to see you throwing punches like a girl on stage. If you want to compete against strong opponents in the professional scene, you need to play your style!"
Victor nodded.
Old Jack extended an invitation: "Come to my house for dinner tomorrow night. There might be a business opportunity you could try."
As he walked out of the boxing gym, the setting sun cast a long shadow of Viktor.
He headed towards the south district, but stopped halfway there.
"Hey, Victor."
A familiar voice came from behind.
Victor turned around and saw Jimmy leaning against Michael's Nth Hand Ford.
This once skinny hoodlum now wears a $45 suit and has his hair neatly combed.
Victor and Jimmy got into the car together, while Michael drove.
"How about automatic laundromats?"
Jimmy grinned: "Eleven thousand US dollars, a bit lower than the market price. As you said, give that old man a room to live in, and the rest are all ours."
Viktor nodded, without asking for further details.
"Then you can run the laundromat for now, just make sure it doesn't lose money."
"No problem, I've been learning for three months already!"
Jimmy is good at networking: "I'm planning to do a little renovation, then put in a free laundry detergent, plus a few other types of paid laundry detergent, that way I can make more money."
Victor warned: "It's best to use real laundry detergent."
······
Back in his apartment, Victor stood in front of the bathroom mirror, examining every scar on his body.
The bruise on my right shoulder was from today's sparring session, while the bruises on my chest and abdomen are from repeated accumulation over the past month.
His body was like a map recording the trials and tribulations he had endured.
These days, Viktor's schedule is as strict as a Swiss clock—running in the morning, technical training in the morning, sparring in the afternoon, and studying opponent videos in the evening.
His life was simplified to the extreme: training, eating, sleeping, over and over again.