harleyscars Page 172
Page 172
This is a microcosm of the golden age of boxing in the 1980s—a carnival of violence and luxury.
When Victor Lee entered through the side door, the entire room fell silent.
He wore a navy blue double-breasted suit with a gold belt slung diagonally across his shoulder, raw gold against refined wool.
Lowell followed half a step behind him, her silver hair gleaming like armor.
There were no pleasantries, no thanks.
Viktor walked directly to the microphone, his gaze sweeping over the crowd.
“I know what you want,”
His voice was deep and clear, “Headlines, bloody announcements, scandals? Well today, you’ll get everything.”
He first held up the front page of the Daily News: "Mr. Mitch Green called me a yellow pig. Interestingly, he lost to a Jew (Spinks) the year before last. It seems his fists are as outdated as his brain."
A suppressed laugh rolled through the hall.
"As for his claim that I have an intimate relationship with Mr. Lowell?"
Victor smiled. "I've heard that after Mr. Green's third divorce, he's now dating his right hand."
The room erupted in laughter. Flashbulbs went off like crazy.
Viktor's smile vanished abruptly, his voice turning icy: "But racism is no joke. Neither is homophobic insults. So now, I'm going to respond with the oldest language of the boxing ring."
“Mitch Green, if your agent can convince those arenas, I’ll fight you!”
He named them one by one: "Andre Golota, Lee Dick Bowe, Evander Holyfield, Lennox Lewis, Vitaly Klitschko, José Libarta—I, Victor Lee, WBA World Champion, extend a public invitation to all of you."
A cacophony erupted like an explosion.
The reporters nearly knocked down the railing.
"The conditions are very simple,"
Victor raised his voice, “A $12 million deposit, plus 40 percent of the PPV. Whoever pays first gets to see me beat them up first. I’ll have you all in the hospital by 1987. Yes, all of you.”
A Sports Illustrated reporter stood up and shouted, "This is impossible! Schedule conflicts, council approval..."
"I am the champion! To hell with the council!"
Viktor interrupted him—in fact, neither the WBA nor the WBO liked a champion who only fought once a year: "These are my rules. Either accept them, or admit you're afraid of me!"
At this moment, a commotion suddenly broke out in the back row.
Mickey Green himself barged in, his face contorted with rage: "You fucking asking for it, Chinaman!"
Security guards tried to stop him, but Green punched one of them down and charged toward the podium like a bull.
Reporters were snapping photos like crazy; it was the dramatic scene they had always dreamed of.
Viktor remained motionless.
When Green rushed within three meters, he suddenly took off his gold belt and slammed it heavily on the table.
Cracks spread across the marble tabletop.
"Come now, Mickey?"
Victor asked softly, "Or do you need to go home and get some diapers first?"
Even as Skyguards held him tightly, Green continued to scream, "I'll kill you! Do you hear me? I'll kill you!"
Viktor picked up the microphone and concluded, "Gentlemen, prepare your money and prayers. 1987 will be the bloodiest year in boxing history. And you—"
He looked directly into the camera and said, "We will all witness a boxing champion in four major events!"
He turned and left, his gold belt gleaming on his shoulder.
Behind me was an explosion of questions, hysterical curses, and a symphony of hundreds of camera flashes.
Lowell followed closely behind, her eyes gleaming with pride beneath her silver hair.
Victor Lee’s Jeep drove deep into Manhattan.
The radio station was broadcasting the aftermath of the press conference live, and the host exclaimed, "My God, he's either a madman or a genius!"
Victor turned off the radio.
The outline of Chicago flashed past the window—this would be his future battlefield.
"He's neither a madman nor a genius,"
He whispered to his reflection in the windowpane, "I just want something hot!"
The wind and snow pounded against the car window, like the drumbeats of fate.
The year 1987 is approaching.
Chapter 146 A Gale Stirs Up a Blizzard
In 1986 Chicago, the December winds were already cutting through the streets along Lake Michigan like knives, swirling up dead leaves and trash in the empty streets.
This American metropolis, known as the "Windy City," is now shrouded in another kind of chill—the tense relationship between races has reached a critical point, and only a spark is needed to ignite long-simmering anger.
The spark was ignited on a gloomy Wednesday afternoon.
······
Ten-year-old Tanya, as usual, took a shortcut through the abandoned railway yard to get home.
She hummed a new song she had learned at school, her red plaid skirt swaying with her skipping steps.
In her schoolbag was her A+ essay, titled "My Dream Chicago"—in which she wrote that her dream Chicago had no "whites only" signs, no white youths spitting at Black people, and no teachers who constantly reminded her, "You are Black, you have to work harder."
But Tanya was unable to bring the essay home.
Two white railroad workers—Bob Shelton and James McCoy—captured her.
They had finished six bottles of beer and were boredly throwing stones to smash streetlights for amusement. Tanya's arrival gave them a new source of entertainment.
The autopsy report revealed that Tanya had been subjected to two hours of abuse and sexual assault before being left outdoors in temperatures of minus five degrees Celsius to freeze to death.
When the police found her, her small body was curled up beside the rusty railroad tracks, her fingers tightly clutching the torn pieces of her red plaid skirt.
This crime is appalling even in Chicago's South Side, where crime rates are already high.
But what angered the Black community even more was the evidence that the two perpetrators might only face minor charges—the murderer could only be sentenced to ten years.
Tanya's father, Carl Lee Haley, a taciturn auto mechanic, remained silent for three whole days after confirming his daughter's identity in the morgue.
On the morning of the fourth day, he took out an M60 machine gun hidden in his wardrobe—a Vietnam War souvenir—and went straight to the courthouse.
"I want justice! I want revenge! I want my daughter!"
He told his wife, who tried to stop him, "If the law won't give it to me, I'll take it myself."
······
Carl Lee waited for forty-seven minutes in the courthouse corridor.
He pulled the trigger as Sheldon and McCoy were led into court in handcuffs and shackles.
One hundred and twenty-seven bullets riddled the two suspects with holes, and also pierced Chicago's already fragile racial nerves.
The Black community's initial reaction was shock, which then turned into a kind of subtle admiration.
Carl Lee instantly became a symbol of resistance against white oppression, while the white community was horrified by this "savage violence."
The mayor convened an emergency meeting, the police chief mobilized all available police forces, and newspapers reported the “Judiciary Building Massacre” on their front page.
Carl Lee was charged with first-degree murder and denied bail.
The next day, the first riot broke out in the South District.
Young people threw bricks and Molotov cocktails at police, shop windows were smashed, and cars were overturned and set on fire.
Police responded with batons and tear gas, arresting hundreds of people.
The situation is on the verge of breaking out.
·······
In an unassuming two-story building in Chicago's Chinatown, Victor stood by the window, watching the black smoke rising in the distance.
"A storm is coming."
He spoke softly, his fingers unconsciously turning the jade ring on his left little finger.
After listening to the other party's hurried speech, Victor only replied, "Tell everyone to come to the usual place, I'll treat you to Lafite!"
Three hours later, the four men gathered in a secret room behind Victor's office.
The room was soundproof, had no windows, and contained only a mahogany round table and four chairs.
The air was filled with the aroma of tea and a tense atmosphere.
Michael arrived first, Ethan followed, and Frankie arrived last.
"You all know the situation."
Victor began, the teapot steadily pouring amber liquid into four cups. “White people killed a black girl, black people killed white murderers, now black people are setting fires in the streets, and white people are preparing to suppress them.”
Michael adjusted his gold-rimmed glasses: "Carl Lee's case has garnered national attention. A white lawyer named Jerry Haas has offered to defend him."
"White lawyers defending Black people?"
Ethan raised an eyebrow. "Rare."
“What’s even more remarkable is that Haas is serious.”
Michael said, "He used to be a civil rights lawyer, very talented. If anyone could get Carl Lee acquitted, it would be him, because he got his brother acquitted."
Franky chuckled, his voice hoarse like sandpaper scraping: "Exonerated? Wouldn't that bring peace to the world? We can sit here, drink tea, watch the show, and wait for the storm to pass."
"this is a good chance."
Victor slowly put down his teacup: "Franky, stop keeping me in suspense. Tell me your thoughts."
Franky's smile faded, and he leaned forward:
"Brothers, a peaceful coexistence between blacks and whites doesn't benefit us. What is the status of Chinese Americans in Chicago? Whites don't treat us as one of their own, and blacks think we're their lackeys."
When stores are looted, the police are the slowest to arrive; children's school enrollment is limited by quotas. We behave ourselves, and what's the result? We're always the sacrificed middlemen.