RNP Page 182
Page 182
Chapter 153 Spring's Incompetence
On a winter night in New York, the cold wind howls like knives across the glass curtain walls of skyscrapers.
In a luxurious yet somewhat empty office in Trump Tower, the hissing of the heating could barely drown out the soft rustling of papers turning.
Donald was tapping his fingers impatiently on the smooth mahogany tabletop.
His tie was a little loose, and there was a hint of anxiety hidden deep in his eyes.
The stock market crash of 1987 was beginning, and the economic downturn was relentlessly impacting his overexpanded empire. His cash flow was stretched so thin that it was almost impossible to hear the signs of it breaking.
Opposite him sat Victor.
Viktor was a burly man, dressed in a well-tailored dark coat, with a stern face, like a rock polished by wind and snow.
He had just finished a fierce battle with Polish bad boy Andrei Golota, and still carried a faint scent of disinfectant.
He's here to discuss a business deal—an exorbitant appearance fee for an exhibition match.
“Oh, Viktor, my friend,”
Trump tried to project his usual confidence into his voice, but a slight hoarseness at the end betrayed him. "Two games, right here at my Atlantis Casino Hotel! Under the spotlight! The price I'm giving you is absolutely commensurate with your status: twelve million dollars a game!"
Victor didn't speak, but simply looked calmly at Trump with his deep eyes, as if he could see through the bluffing facade to the red numbers flashing in his bank account.
A silence filled the room, making it hard for Trump to breathe.
"Donald, I haven't seen the appearance fee you paid me or the share of the box office revenue that should have been mine. Yesterday, the theater was packed with 15,000 people!"
Trump cleared his throat, leaned forward, and lowered his voice, sounding very sincere. "You know, Downey always has a lot of big projects running, cash flow, well, some minor issues... So, this wonderful fee, we might be able to arrange to settle it all at the end of the year! Great! As for the time in between,"
He waved his hand, trying to appear nonchalant. "I'll settle the account at the highest bank interest rate! You don't have to do anything, and your money will make money! Isn't that better than getting cash right away?"
Viktor's lips twitched almost imperceptibly.
He knew it.
He had already heard rumors of an economic crisis.
Trump's predicament was clear the moment he stepped into the office—there seemed to be fewer expensive artworks, his secretary looked more nervous, and even Trump himself, whose signature arrogance had been slightly diminished and replaced by an eagerness to close a deal.
So why doesn't Viktor give it a try?
"Settling the accounts at the end of the year is fine."
Victor finally spoke, his voice low and steady, carrying an undeniable authority, "But the interest will be calculated at two percentage points above the interbank lending rate of Wall Street peers. And it needs to be in writing, with clear terms."
There was a flash of relaxation in Trump's eyes, and then he was stung a little by the "two floating points", but he immediately laughed, trying to cover up everything with his volume: "Haha! Of course! I like to do business with professionals! It's refreshing! Victor, you are the best! In the March game, you will definitely beat Riddick Bowe! By then, your worth will have to rise!"
He stood up and extended his hand warmly.
Victor also stood up and shook Trump's hand.
Two hands, one slightly unsteady and eager to succeed, the other steady and powerful in controlling the rhythm.
Victor continued with a new idea: "Donnie, why not consider the idea I've proposed? With you involved, my box office share and appearance fee would be enough for us to build a Plaza Hotel in Chicago, and we could make a lot of money in the Windy City!"
"I've already started the risk assessment."
Donald's words didn't bring much of a smile to Victor's face—even if Donald didn't agree, he would leave the cash in Donald's account so that he could have an opportunity to strike soon.
After Donnie left, Victor continued his old business.
·······
In a private hospital on Chicago's West Side, the smell of disinfectant was so strong it was almost unbearable.
Andrew Golota awoke from a sharp, dull pain in his jaw.
Consciousness is like shattered glass, slowly pieced back together.
The memory finally freezes on Victor's terrifying straight punch, the lights, the spinning ceiling, and then endless darkness.
He tried to move, but found that his head was fixed in place.
He tried to speak, but could only manage indistinct "hoarse" sounds. A sharp pain shot through his chin, instantly drenching him in a cold sweat.
"you're awake?"
The nurse's voice was calm to the point of being indifferent, "Don't move, your jaw... is comminuted. The surgery was successful, but you need absolute rest."
Comminuted fracture?
Golota's mind went blank.
As a boxer, he knew all too well what this meant.
A long recovery period, with at least six months of mandatory medical suspension.
His career was just beginning to take off. Although he lost to Viktor, he believed that he had at least fought hard and narrowly lost, and that he could still be proud of his defeat.
The doctor walked in, holding the medical record board, and calmly announced the verdict, handing over a piece of paper at the same time.
"Mr. Golota, this is your medical bill. Surgery, hospitalization, medication, specialist consultation... totaling $73,000. Please take a look."
Seventy-three thousand US dollars!
This number was like a heavy punch, more brutal and fatal than Viktor's blow, slamming into Golota's heart.
His eyes widened suddenly as he tried to struggle, letting out a trapped animal-like whimper.
His appearance fee and bonus from the last game, after deducting team expenses and taxes, amounted to far less than this!
He didn't even have full medical insurance because it was too expensive; he always thought he was strong enough and lucky enough...
Despair, a chilling despair, crept up my spine and spread throughout my body.
What did he become?
A loser with a broken jaw and heavy debts.
A few days later, he was discharged from the hospital with his face still wrapped in thick bandages, and returned to his small home in an old neighborhood in Chicago, where the loan was still not paid off.
His wife, Mariora, a gentle yet resilient Polish woman, had eyes filled with worry and fear, but she forced herself not to shed a tear in front of him.
House seemingly endless rain.
The owner of the Chicago boxing gym, an obese man who used to pat him on the shoulder and praise him as "the next hope," called.
The tone was no longer warm as it used to be, but rather cold and businesslike.
“Andrew, it’s a shame you’re injured. You know, the club is having a tough time. We need fighters who can fight immediately and generate revenue. Six months is too long, and… well, frankly, the board thinks your performance against Victor… well… wasn’t competitive enough. So, I’m sorry, we won’t be renewing your contract when it expires. Good luck.”
The call was hung up.
Golotta gripped the receiver, his arm trembling violently with anger and helplessness.
Lack of competitiveness?
Not worth training?
He bled and sweated for that match, and was almost beaten to death!
These vampires!
He slammed the telephone to the ground, sending shards flying.
Mariora screamed in fright.
Outrageous! Incredibly outrageous!
But after the anger comes a deeper sense of powerlessness.
Reality, like a cold tide, overwhelmed his ankles, knees, chest... He couldn't breathe.
The hospital's payment reminders came like snowflakes, growing increasingly harsh, eventually even threatening to submit them to debt collection agencies, damaging his credit and potentially leading to a lawsuit.
He watched as Marieola began calculating the prices of the cheapest potatoes and bread to save money, watched her secretly wipe away tears from the corners of her eyes, and watched her face grow increasingly haggard from worry.
A tremendous sense of shame and failure overwhelmed him.
He was a husband, yet he couldn't protect his wife or even pay her medical debts, leaving her in this predicament.
He became an incompetent husband.
······
Just when Golota was almost driven to the brink of despair and even began to consider some dangerous ways to make money, an unexpected phone call came in.
The caller identified himself as the manager of "Skywind City Finance Company" and said that he had heard that Mr. Golota was having some financial difficulties and that his company would be happy to help.
A surge of joy at being saved from a desperate situation welled up in Golota's heart, and he didn't even think about why this company he had never heard of would approach him.
He couldn't wait to arrange a meeting.
The meeting place was in a grand and spacious office, where the air was filled with the aroma of fine cigars and flowers.
The manager was a thin, Chinese-American man, dressed in a well-fitting suit, and cold and ruthless.
“Mr. Golota, we understand your situation and sympathize with you very much.”
Mr. Smith said insincerely, handing over a contract, “We are willing to provide you with a loan of $100,000! Payable in two years, it will be enough to cover your medical debts and allow you and your wife to get through this long recovery period without your wife having to work in a bar.”
Golota could hardly believe his ears.
That's almost the entire value of his little house!
He picked up the contract with trembling hands, staring greedily at the number as if it were a lifeline.
Mr. Smith abruptly changed the subject, pointing to a highly unusual additional clause on the last page of the contract. “Any loan requires collateral, doesn’t it? We understand your house is currently the only collateral. Hmm… it’s valued at just over $100,000. So, to show good faith, and… to ensure ‘trust’ between us…”
He paused, a lewd and cruel smile spreading across his face. “We also need a little ‘extra’ guarantee. It’s simple: all you need is for your wife, Ms. Marieola, to spend one night alone in Mr. Victor’s apartment in Chicago. Just one night. We’ll arrange the time. Once she walks in and stays there for the required period, the loan will be in effect immediately, with extremely low interest!”
Time seems to have frozen.
The color drained from Golota's face instantly, followed by a surge of furious crimson that rushed to his cheeks and neck, making the bandages seem about to burst!
An unprecedented humiliation!
"What did you say?! You son of a bitch! Say it again, you fucking bastard!"
Golota suddenly stood up, his massive body swaying violently with rage. He grabbed the contract and tore it to shreds, throwing the scraps like snowflakes at Manager Smith's face!
"You're Viktor's men! No wonder no one gave me a loan! They said I didn't have five years of social security contributions! It was all your threats!"
"Bastard! Scum! Don't even think about it! Get out! Get out of here!"