socalfunplaces Page 4
Page 4
Victor was somewhat apprehensive. He knew Old Joe wanted to get rid of him, but he was more concerned about Li Shengli's thoughts: "I don't know how to survive in the South District. Can you give me some advice?"
Old Joe suddenly flew into a rage, slamming his fist on the metal wall, making the entire container tremble. "You think I want to keep watch on this stinking dock every night? You think I want to smell the urine of homeless people every day? Supporting yourself is a required course for every adult, kid!"
Viktor craned his neck to look at him, his fat jiggling under the force of gravity.
He noticed the tattoo on his uncle's right arm—it had appeared seven years ago, in the same month that he was taken in.
A man who lost his family and wanted to raise a family and children had to join a gang to get a stable job. He was also supporting his brother's child. Victor thought a lot last night, and many things were on his mind.
"Thank you, Uncle Joe."
Viktor suddenly spoke, his voice more resolute than he had imagined—those who wielded sledgehammers on construction sites were naturally bold and fearless: "Seven years, four months, and sixteen days."
Old Joe was stunned, his cigarette hanging in mid-air.
"The time you took me in."
Victor stood up awkwardly, his towel slipping to the floor. "My dad would never have imagined that you would join a gang to take care of me."
According to CDC data, 44,000 people died from gun violence in the United States in 2024, more than double the number of deaths in the Ukraine war—and the number would have been even higher in the 1980s when statistics were not so good. Viktor's parents are just two insignificant figures among them.
He was already luckier than half the boys in the South District by living to the age of eighteen.
A flicker of emotion that Victor couldn't decipher flashed in Old Joe's eyes.
He roughly stubbed out his cigarette on the Burger King paper bag: "You can use the container until the end of the month. After that, you either pay the rent or get out. My advice is simple: either go to the mob to make a living, do manual labor, or become a thug. But try not to offend anyone. If you do offend someone, remember to go to the mob. They'll do anything for money, much better than foreign agencies."
As the iron gate slammed shut again, Victor counted the money and then flipped through the black notebook.
On the third page, there was a woman named Malinda, next to whom were three question marks and two dollar signs. His trembling fingers traced the address—Gold Coast, one of Chicago's wealthiest zip codes.
The sunlight outside the window suddenly became dazzling.
Viktor put on the only clean T-shirt (it was yellowed under the armpits) and tucked the notebook into his waistband.
The $11,000 felt heavy in my pocket, like a stone about to fall into an abyss.
He took one last look at the tin box he had lived in for seven years, divided the 11,000 dollars into three or four portions and stuffed them into various places in his canvas bag, and put six more bills in his wallet. Only those six were the ones he could actually use.
There are height markings he carved every year on the corner of the wall—they haven't been updated in six months.
His parents' photos hung on the doorknob, their edges curled and yellowed.
Viktor tidied himself up, took a deep breath, pushed open the iron gate, and a new life began, in the dirtiest and most real way.
dong dong!dong dong!
Victor, carrying a canvas bag, solemnly knocked on Uncle Joe's door. Uncle Joe opened the door unhappily, but looking at his nephew's expression, he understood what his nephew was thinking.
"I'd like to invite you to dinner tonight."
Old Joe offered Victor a cigarette, which Victor accepted.
When the clouds and mist swirled around him, Old Joe offered his advice:
"Forget about meals. My personal suggestion is that you buy a gun, then go and pay your respects to the Chinese gangs in the South District. Just mention my name, and it will only cost you forty dollars a month in protection fees. This isn't joining a gang, it's just to avoid being bullied by others."
“I don’t know what you’re planning to do, but judging from how you hit someone yesterday, I think you could try your luck at a bar. They seem to be hiring security guards.”
"Or you could continue your career, but that's only a temporary solution. If you want to live in a big house, you'll need to work out at the gym regularly, since nobody likes fat."
“You can also give the gang fifty dollars, and they will arrange a job for you, with an income of about six hundred dollars a month.”
"But whatever you do, I think you shouldn't get too involved with gangs. They're never the right people."
Victor indicated that he understood, but then asked, "So how much would it take to get you out of the gang?"
Old Joe frowned and uttered a "get lost".
Victor slung his canvas bag over his shoulder and left—then turned and knocked on the Gallagher's door.
Chapter 4 A Despicable Life of Helplessness
Viktor stood before the weathered red gate of the Gallagher's house, his knuckles tapping against the door with a dull thud.
His faded yellow short-sleeved shirt looked shabby, even in the South District, but the determination on his chubby face was faintly visible in the morning light—the South District needed a gun, regardless of whether it was usable or not.
From inside the door came Fiona Gallagher's shrill voice: "I've fucking had enough! How dare those three damn bitches mortgage the house to the bank? This is our only home!"
Viktor stood expressionless in the doorway, ignoring the argument inside.
He had long been accustomed to the hustle and bustle of life at the bottom of society.
The door opened a crack, and Fiona's angry face appeared through the gap. Her brown curly hair was tied messily behind her head, and there were obvious dark circles under her eyes.
"Oh, Victor, it's you."
Fiona's tone softened somewhat, but her face was still clearly etched with worry.
Victor told Fiona, "I'm looking for Carl."
Fiona stepped aside to let Victor in. "Karl is in the kitchen."
Victor nodded and walked straight to the kitchen, ignoring Ian and Lip who were drinking beer in the living room.
In the kitchen, Carl was focused on a plate of fried eggs and bacon. His thin shoulders looked particularly frail under his oversized T-shirt, but his eyes held a calmness beyond his years.
“I need a gun. Accuracy doesn’t matter, but it has to be stable and reliable. I’m looking for a job in the South District right now. As a Chinese American, I really need to be safe.”
Viktor got straight to the point, his voice as deep as an echo in a cellar.
Karl didn't even lift his eyelids, continuing to chew his food.
Victor wasn't in a hurry. He leaned against the refrigerator and took out two rolls of banknotes tied with rubber bands from his pocket, each roll containing exactly one hundred dollars.
The banknotes gleamed an alluring green under the kitchen light.
Fiona followed them into the kitchen, her eyes lighting up when she saw the money.
Victor handed her the money: "Settle the bill for the previous meals."
Fiona quickly took the money, her fingers deftly counting it. "This is more than I expected."
Ian poked his head in from the living room and whistled loudly: "Looks like our new friend is quite generous."
Viktor spread his hands: "This is my last act of generosity, because I was just forced to support myself."
Carl glanced at him, and Fiona exclaimed in surprise, "Old Joe has been good to you; he wouldn't kick you out like that."
Victor ate his sandwich without looking up: "But I'm eighteen now, and I can't be a burden to Uncle Joe anymore. He has four children of his own."
Kevin and Veronica, a couple, came up from the basement and witnessed this scene.
Kevin patted Victor on the shoulder and grinned, "Looks like we've got a tough guy on the team. The South District's King of Guns is about to head to the battlefield!"
Victor ignored the teasing; his gaze remained fixed on Karl.
The boy finally finished his breakfast, slowly wiped his mouth with his sleeve, stood up, said "Come with me," and then walked silently toward the back door.
Viktor understood and followed.
They walked through two blocks covered in graffiti, the air thick with the smell of trash and urine.
Nick joined them in front of an abandoned auto repair shop.
Nick eyed Victor warily, while Carl simply nodded briefly, and the three continued on their way.
Eventually, they turned into a narrow alley where graffiti on the wall read 'Blood and Glory'.
Nick stood guard at the alley entrance, while Carl pulled a rusty key from his waist and opened a metal locker under the fire escape ladder.
"Don't bring this up in my house next time. Don't talk about work when you're living together. One hundred and fifty dollars."
Without turning his head, Carl took out an oil paper package from the locker and said, "SW M&P 340, .38 special ammunition, plus one hundred rounds of ammunition."
Viktor inspected the weapon—the revolver was in good condition, and the cylinder turned smoothly.
He took the money out of his inner pocket, and as Carl took it, a sneer appeared on his lips: "Fat pig, do you even know how to use this thing? I bet you do more of it down there!"
Viktor did not answer, skillfully unloaded and reloaded the pistol, and then inserted it into the holster under his arm.
He deliberately sticks out his belly, letting the fat perfectly conceal the outline of the weapon.
"You don't need to be good at it, as long as you can get out there and play."
Victor turned to leave, but Karl suddenly added, "If you get caught, don't tell anyone..."
"I found it."
After leaving the alley, Victor hailed a taxi to Chinatown on Chicago's South Side.
The driver was a silent elderly Asian man with a string of red Chinese knots hanging on the rearview mirror.
The car drove through the dilapidated streets and finally stopped in front of a shop called 'Golden Dragon Tea House'.
Viktor pushed open the door and entered, immediately enveloped by the aroma of tea.
The old man behind the counter looked up, his eyes, behind his gold-rimmed glasses, sharp as an eagle's.
"I'm looking for Third Master."
Viktor spoke in clear, fluent Chinese with a strong Hebei accent, “Old Joe sent me.”
The old man's expression subtly changed. He pressed a button under the counter, and a moment later, a burly man in a black Tang suit came out from the back room.
"follow me."
The burly man spoke in English.
After walking down a dimly lit corridor, Victor was led into a smoke-filled office.
The walls are adorned with Chinese calligraphy and photographs from the heyday of the Chicago mob.
Behind the desk sat a Chinese man in his sixties, his gray hair neatly combed, toying with a pair of jade balls in his hands.
"Old Joe's nephew?"
Third Master asked in English, his voice sounding like sandpaper rubbing.
Victor nodded and took an envelope from his pocket containing seventy dollars in cash: "Shelter and a house."
Third Master glanced at it, then answered a phone call, hung up and asked:
"You've been here since you were little, and your parents have been here since they were little too. Where did you learn Chinese from? And it's not even our language?"
Third Master's eyes were sharp, like knives ready to stab.