harleyscars Page 19
Page 19
Old Jack gave Victor a push. "Now."
Viktor walked through the boxing gym with his head down, and he could feel everyone's eyes on him.
There was curiosity, admiration, but mostly wariness and hostility.
He just disrupted not only the balance of a practice match, but also some kind of invisible order in this boxing gym.
The locker room door closed behind me, and the noise from the outside world rushed into my ears.
Foucault took Reggie to his office, where he was met with a barrage of reprimands.
After most people left, Foucault called old Jack into his office.
Through the half-open door, Victor could hear a heated argument.
"...Do you know who's backing Reggie? We need him!"
Foucault's voice.
"...The boxing gym is gambling right now, betting on Reggie to succeed, but why not bet on Victor? He could win even more!"
Old Jack retorted.
"...What did that Asian kid have? A lucky victory?..."
“…Talent, discipline, you know, they are born warriors, Foucault. You and I have witnessed this on the battlefield, we always knew it while we were in the prisoner-of-war camp. They are fearless in the face of their goals, and Viktor is like that too! And there’s something your precious Reggie will never have—a heart!…”
The argument lasted for nearly half an hour.
When old Jack finally came out, he looked extremely tired.
Victor handed him a bottle of water. "Did I get into trouble?"
Old Jack took a big gulp of water and shook his head: "No, it's just bringing up old grudges again. Foucault and I have disagreements about the direction of the boxing gym."
He glanced at Viktor. “But you’re right, it does concern you. Foucault thinks I should focus my energy on Reggie, not ‘waste’ it on you.”
Viktor paused for a moment, then said, "I can leave without causing you any trouble."
Old Jack suddenly laughed, "Kid, do you know why I took your five hundred dollars?"
Victor shook his head.
"Because poverty can motivate anyone to work hard, but very few people can still work hard after becoming rich."
Old Jack patted him on the shoulder. "Reggie is content with what he has now, but that doesn't meet our expectations. We need someone who can soar to great heights, and I think you are the most suitable person for that goal!"
He pointed to the location of his heart.
“And you, Victor Lee, you have that. So no, I won’t give up on you. Instead, starting tomorrow, double the training intensity, and you need to be at Real Men Gym by 10 a.m..”
"A real man?"
Old Jack nodded: "I drove it!"
Viktor felt a long-lost emotion welling up in his chest—the feeling of being trusted.
"I won't let you down, coach."
Old Jack nodded. "I know. Go home and rest now. Tomorrow, I want to see you. Be prepared for hell. Now take your Miss Six-Shot. Reggie's still here."
Chapter 16 How to Become a Professional Boxer
The evening sunlight was already weak, but the car lights were so bright that it was hard to open one's eyes. Victor squinted and pushed open the rusty iron door, the metal hinges making a grating groan.
He had only taken two steps when he froze in place—ten meters away, a dark blue Chevrolet Impala was parked across the alley entrance, its windows half-rolled down, revealing several familiar faces.
Reggie's swollen face peered out of the passenger window, dried blood still clinging to the corner of his mouth.
His eyes lit up when he saw Victor, like a vulture spotting carrion.
There were four muscular Black men in the car, their muscles straining against their T-shirts, one of whom was unbuckled his seatbelt in preparation for getting out.
"Only in this way?"
Viktor cursed under his breath, his right hand already reaching for the SW M&P 340 at his waist. This old .38 caliber rifle was one he'd bought from Karl; the walnut wood on the grip was polished to a shine.
The clanging of metal was particularly crisp in the quiet alley.
Viktor held the gun horizontally in his right hand, and with his left hand, he took out six bullets from his pocket and lined them up in his palm.
Sunlight danced on the brass cartridge cases, like a row of tiny warning lights.
"If I were you,"
Viktor's voice was colder than a Siberian winter: "He would never test my accuracy."
He pressed the ejection lever with his thumb, and the cylinder swung to the left, with six smoking cartridge cases clattering to the ground.
He had practiced this move thousands of times and could complete it in three seconds with his eyes closed. As for accuracy, there's not much to say; after roughly aiming, he would rely on the reload speed.
The sound of bullets sliding into the chamber one after another was like a death countdown.
The Chevrolet's engine suddenly roared to life.
A guy wearing a gold chain in the back seat had just pushed the car door open a crack when he saw Victor's action and immediately shrank back.
"Damn lunatic!"
Reggie's curses were muffled by the suddenly raised car window.
The tires left two black marks on the ground, and the Chevrolet sped off like a startled wild horse.
Victor did not move.
He clicked the wheel back into place, but didn't put it away.
A few barks came from the end of the alley, and police sirens sounded in the distance, sometimes near, sometimes far.
Five minutes later, a black Dodge Charger without any markings slowly pulled up in front of him.
Jason leaned out of the driver's seat, his sunglasses reflecting the image of Victor holding a gun.
Michael, in the passenger seat, was fiddling with a Nikon F3, its telephoto lens sticking out of the window like a cannon barrel.
As Victor slid into the back seat, he smelled a faint scent of gunpowder.
"The alarm was false; they haven't gone far."
As he spoke, he rolled down the car window, and sure enough, he saw the Chevrolet in front of the convenience store 200 meters away.
As the Dodge slowly drove by, Reggie was yelling something into his phone. Upon seeing their car, he immediately lunged to the window.
Viktor slowly raised his middle finger, a cold smile curling at the corner of his mouth.
"Fuck your mother! You son of a bitch!"
Reggie's roar was left behind.
Michael calmly pressed the shutter, and the motor drove the camera with a series of clicks.
"Take a picture of him?"
"I asked, my eyes still fixed on the increasingly smaller figure in the rearview mirror," Victor asked.
Michael checked the film counter: "Don't worry, it's good stuff from Mark's house. You can even see the pimples on his face clearly."
He turned to Jason, “Turn right at the next intersection, we’ll bypass the surveillance cameras.”
Twenty minutes later, they pushed open the oak door of the Allebi bar.
The bar was almost full in the evening. Veronica's low-cut dress was almost spilling out. Kevin was wiping glasses behind the bar. He smiled happily when he saw them.
"Three signature set meals and a pitcher of chilled Budweiser."
Viktor paid the bill, and the table in the corner, leaning against the load-bearing pillar, was always reserved for them—it had the best view, was against the wall, and was only five steps away from the back door.
One of the rules in the South District is: pay first, then enjoy.
Jason took a roll of film out of the camera, put it in a brown paper bag, and wrote the date on it with a pencil.
Fifty dollars.
He lowered his voice and said to Michael, "I'll have Mark and that bitch's affair all over the South District within a week! It'll even get on pay channels, and I can make a fortune."
"Goodeidil!"
Michael was overjoyed. When Veronica brought the beer, the glass was frosted over. She overheard him say, "Little boys, it's not good to invade women's privacy."
Jason handed over a one-dollar tip: "She's not as beautiful and charming as Ms. Veronica. She's just a lowlife who works with her legs spread wide. The law doesn't protect her work, and she hasn't paid taxes on her work, so naturally the law won't protect her either."
Veronica said fiercely, "Don't bring gangster stuff into my bar."
Victor slipped ten dollars into Veronica's hand: "Ms. Veronica, all three of us are hungry."
Veronica's smile instantly blossomed. "Of course, we'll prepare immediately. For Franklin's sake, you can say whatever you want, nothing important."
After Veronica left, Victor downed half a glass before speaking: "I need Reggie's address and whereabouts."
Jason poked at his bread with his fork: "No need for that. We can have someone break his legs for just five hundred dollars."
He gestured toward the kitchen, "We can hire Mickey. He's not doing so well, but he's professional and cheap."
"You can't ask someone for help with this kind of thing."
Victor's knuckles tapped out a dull rhythm on the wooden table. "I don't trust them. It'll be troublesome if we expose ourselves later."
Michael tore open a piece of white sugar and poured it into the food: "Got it. I can find it within a week."
He licked his sugar-stained fingers. "One hundred dollars."
"no problem."
Viktor pulled out a roll of banknotes tied with a rubber band from his inner pocket, took out two bills, and pushed them over.
Veronica brought over a steaming pot of stew, its aroma a blend of rosemary and black pepper. Then, she slipped a note down Viktor's neck.
Viktor, expressionless, put the paper into his pocket.
Pink juices seeped out as Jason cut into the steak: "What are you going to do with it?"
Victor's knife scraped softly across the plate.
He looked up at his two companions, and something in their dark brown eyes made Michael unconsciously sit up straight.
"Let's find a time for the three of us to get together."