blogombal Page 84
Page 84
Foucault looked him straight in the eye. “You’ve already reached the top in amateur boxing. The professional boxing ring is the real battlefield.”
Victor nodded.
This is exactly the question he has been pondering.
“I want to be your promoter. This $10,000 is what I will use for promotion.”
Foucault continued, “Old Jack and Ethan have agreed to join the coaching staff. Ethan told me that he also contacted Frankie Dunn—you know him, right?”
Viktor raised an eyebrow.
Frankie Dunn is a legendary coach who, despite being over fifty, remains a prominent figure in the boxing world.
"Is he willing to teach me?"
"Ethan convinced him because Frankie had suffered a lot of psychological trauma and decided to leave his hometown for a while."
Foucault smiled. "It seems your potential is greater than you realize."
They discussed the details—training plans, possible match schedules, and financial allocation.
Viktor felt a strange sense of peace, as if he had finally found his direction.
"And one more thing,"
Near the end of the conversation, Foucault said, "You need an agent."
Victor frowned. "Max said he would recommend me to help me."
"This is the one Max recommended."
Foucault nodded: "But we've decided to examine him."
Viktor did not answer immediately.
"Think about it,"
Foucault seemed to sense his hesitation. "We have a small dinner party tomorrow night, and we've invited a few potential candidates. Let's at least hear their thoughts."
"I will be there on time."
Viktor nodded, then asked another question:
"Who instructed you to do what happened yesterday?"
Why weren't any people from Foucault Boxing Gym there yesterday?
Foucault spread his hands: "The Chicago Police Department took away old Jack yesterday, the Boxing Association took me away, and the rest of the people were blocked by Sir Ray's (Third Master) men."
"Ubelman?"
"Besides him, I'm afraid no one else has such a lot of influence."
Foucault sighed, “It all happened so fast yesterday that we didn’t have time to deal with it, so we were caught off guard. One of the people at tomorrow’s party will be there, so I can complain to them.”
Viktor looked at him.
Foucault explained: "One of our companions returned from Korea fully recovered, only to have his hand cut off in Vietnam."
"There's no point in doing this. Is Ubelman really a fool?"
Victor expressed his doubts: "He could have easily hired a gunman to kill me, or simply burned down half the street, but he kept me on edge all night and did nothing."
"That's the biggest irony."
Foucault had seen many people like this: "He just wanted to give us a warning."
Victor got up and left:
See you tomorrow.
Chapter 67 Family Gatherings and Business Gatherings
On a humid summer night in Chicago's South Side, the air is filled with the aroma of barbecue and soy sauce.
Viktor, carrying two bottles of top-quality Jiannanchun liquor and a pack of Hei Liqun cigarettes, stood in front of Uncle Qiao's house. He adjusted his clothes, and the sounds of children playing and the clinking of spatulas could be heard coming from the yard.
The door opened, and Uncle Qiao, though his face was wrinkled, was still very energetic. He grabbed the black leather jacket.
“Good stuff, this isn’t cheap! Victor! Come in quickly, Michael and Ethan are already here.”
Of course it's not cheap; this stuff can only be obtained through smuggling.
"Happy birthday."
—Old Joe's birthday is March 26.
Viktor handed over a gift—his first birthday celebration for his uncle.
In the living room, Michael was waving his hands and talking, while Ethan leaned back on the old leather sofa, playing with a delicate lighter in his hand—a gift he had brought for his father.
In the corner, Franky sat by the window like a shadow, smoke rising from the cigarette between his fingers, forming eerie patterns in the dim light.
Hey guys!
Victor called out loudly, placing the drinks on the coffee table, "You're here really early!"
Four-year-old Karen charged at him like a little cannonball, and Victor laughed as he lifted her above his head. The little girl let out a silvery laugh.
Franky merely raised his eyelids and continued smoking.
Two-year-old Jessica in his arms sucked her thumb and looked over curiously.
"Brother Victor!"
Karen wrapped her arms around his neck. "Mom said you're going to teach me boxing!"
"Of course, a future little champion."
Victor glanced at his 'nimble' aunt, nuzzled her cheek with his nose, sat by the window, opened a pack of Black Liquor cigarettes, gave one to each of them, lit it, and turned to Franky:
"How's the South District doing lately? Thank you for your message, it was a great help."
Franky exhaled a smoke ring, savoring the strong flavor of his hometown's products in a foreign land: "It's nothing, just some small-scale scrambling."
His voice was deep and hoarse, like sandpaper rubbing against wood. "Sri has been in a good mood lately and hasn't caused much trouble for Chinatown."
A loud voice came from the kitchen: "Frankie! Tell your wife to put less chili in! We Americans can't handle that much spice!"
Frankie's wife, Lin Mei, peeked out from the kitchen with a helpless smile on her face—her hometown is Xiushui, Jiangxi.
Victor noticed that Frankie's fingers tightened slightly when he heard the word 'American,' and his cigarette creased in his hand: "That's why we don't like our own mothers!"
“Victor,”
Michael excitedly interjected, "Tell Dad how much we made this time!"
Ethan rolled his eyes. "Couldn't you wait until we eat to talk about this?"
"Two thousand US dollars,"
Victor put Karen down, took an envelope from his inner pocket, and handed it to Old Joe. "This is for you, Uncle."
Old Joe touched the thickness of the envelope in surprise. "I just sent something."
Victor shook his head: "I don't have any money, otherwise I would have more."
Franky sneered, "How much can you earn with your fists? You earn more with a gun."
"Use contracts and the law,"
Victor said calmly, but his eyes sharpened, “Frankie, our money can be spent honestly and legitimately.”
The atmosphere in the room suddenly became subtle.
Old Joe quickly tried to smooth things over: "Did you guys watch Viktor's boxing match? He's the Golden Gloves champion! How long has it been since Chicago has had a Chinese champion?"
"Thirteen years."
Ethan immediately replied, "The last time was in 1972, with Bruce Lee's student, Jimmy Wong."
"But the association didn't even hold a celebration banquet,"
Michael was indignant. "Victor beat a seeded player! Those white judges were horrified!"
Ethan envisioned the future: "But it will be great soon, because we will be going professional and earning US dollars."
Franky suddenly stubbed out his cigarette on the windowsill. "Are you still dreaming?"
His voice cut like a knife, 'Skin wants to gain status in this country? Look at Chinatown, look at those laundromats and restaurants, we even have to defend our own territory with guns and blood!'
Victor noticed that Old Joe's brows furrowed, but the old man didn't say anything.
Karen seemed to sense the tense atmosphere and hugged Victor's leg tightly.
"Frankie is right,"
Viktor spoke slowly, taking a red-covered book from the inside pocket of his trench coat and placing it on the table—he now carried it with him everywhere: "But not entirely."
The gold-embossed Chinese characters "Selected Works" on the book cover shimmered under the light.
"Status is not something you beg for."
Victor tapped the book cover lightly with his fingers. "It was won through struggle. How many years did Martin Luther King Jr. fight for it? Can a Black person now enter the White House?"
Franky jumped to his feet. "What the hell do you know? Sri has hundreds of guns. Last year, seven of our brothers died over a lighter business on two blocks! What do you think this struggle is? Child's play?"
"Franky!"
Old Joe shouted sternly, "Don't bring your gangster ways in here! Otherwise, get out!"
Viktor laughed, a laugh that made the room temperature drop instantly.
"Chicago has 300,000 Chinese Americans, Frankie. 300,000 votes, 300,000 consumers, 300,000 taxpayers. In this country, you either control finance or you control the vote, or you'll always be a second-class citizen."
Everyone was stunned; even the sounds coming from the kitchen stopped.
Then someone burst out laughing first, followed by a burst of laughter throughout the room, except for Victor and Franky.
“Victor, my child,”
Old Joe wiped his eyes. "When did you start getting interested in politics?"
Viktor remained silent.
Dinner took place in an odd atmosphere.