RNP Page 86
Page 86
When Lowell finally closed the briefcase, the metal clasp made a crisp 'click' sound.
Viktor realized that the sound was exactly like the ring bell in the corner of the boxing ring—the start of a whole new phase.
He also offered a suggestion that left Viktor with no reason not to choose him:
“Max Blackton, I’m relaying something, which is also advice we both gave him: you’d better have a white girlfriend and create some rumors that you only like white girlfriends, so that you can be accepted more quickly.”
······
As the banquet drew to a close, Victor found himself standing on the balcony, the cold air bringing him back to his senses.
Footsteps sounded behind me; it was Ethan.
"That guy's not bad, is he?"
Ethan leaned against the railing, his breath dissipating into the night.
Viktor did not answer immediately.
Lowell was indeed impressive, but he also knew what kind of discussion his choice of a white agent would cause among the Chinese community in the South—there were quite a few Chinese agents, after all.
Ethan may not be the most professional, but he's one of us and can tell the truth.
"You're thinking of Max."
Ethan saw through his thoughts.
Victor nodded: "What will the community say? Giving the opportunity to outsiders?"
"The community won't take the punches for you."
Ethan's voice suddenly turned serious. "Listen, Victor, too many talented black boxers have been ruined by terrible managers. Wrong contracts, wrong opponents, they're past their prime at twenty."
Turning to Viktor, he said, "You're the Golden Glove Champion, the community can't hold you back, even Ubelman wouldn't dare to make a move against a Golden Glove Champion."
Victor gazed at the lights of Chicago in the distance.
Ethan is right, but the decision is still difficult.
“Lowell mentioned a name,”
Victor said slowly, "Some promoter named Eddie Duane. He said to stay away from people like that."
“That’s right. Those kinds of people will drain you dry and then throw you away. Lowell knows this, which means he really understands this industry.”
Ethan's expression darkened: "But I'm talking about Frankie Dunn."
Victor retracted his statement that 'Ethan saw through his thoughts'.
Back in the banquet hall, Victor found Lowell talking to old Jack.
Seeing Viktor approach, the two stopped talking.
"How do you think about it?"
Viktor took a deep breath.
He could feel everyone's eyes on him—Foucault, Ethan, old Jack, and even Frankie Dunn in the distance.
“I want to give it a try,”
Victor finally said, looking Lowell straight in the eye, "But there's a condition."
Lowell raised an eyebrow: "Go on."
"I need you to handle my affairs personally, not delegate them to anyone else on the team. And you must make arrangements for me when I need opponents!"
Viktor paused for a moment. "I reserve the final say, especially regarding the choice of our opponent."
Lowell's expression shifted from surprise to appreciation: "Reasonable terms. I accept."
He extended his hand. "Welcome to the professional boxing world, Victor."
At the moment of shaking hands, Viktor felt a strange sense of relief.
The decision has been made, and the path has been chosen.
From this moment on, everything will be different.
Viktor stood in the doorway, his breath condensing and dissipating in the cold air.
Under the streetlights, the snowflakes seemed to be manipulated by an invisible hand, sometimes swirling upwards, sometimes plunging straight down, dancing a silent waltz in the dim yellow light.
He tightened the zipper of his sports jacket, but the chill still crept in through the collar, feeling like countless tiny needles pricking his skin.
The watch showed 5:47 a.m. The whole street was still immersed in a deep blue silence, with only a few windows showing scattered lights.
"17-kilometer interval training run, three times a week."
Viktor repeated his training plan in a low voice, as if it were a spell to dispel the cold.
He did a few simple stretches, then started walking, his running shoes making a soft crunching sound on the freshly fallen snow.
When running, Viktor's thoughts run faster than his feet.
Property tax, laundromat profits, cash flow—these numbers swirled in his mind like snowflakes dancing under streetlights, seemingly light yet carrying a cold weight.
The rhythm of interval running made his heart beat faster and slower.
During the final sprint, Victor could almost hear the blood throbbing in his temples;
When jogging, he can clearly feel the rhythm of his lungs expanding and contracting.
He was no longer the 'fat pig' who could only walk fast. Now, this control over his body gave him a strange sense of comfort. At least here, effort and reward were proportional.
An hour and a half later, Victor returned home, his sweatshirt soaked with sweat.
He took a hot shower, changed into clean clothes, and then went straight to the office on the second floor of the laundromat.
Jimmy, Michael, and Ethan were already there, with ledgers spread out on the table.
"How about it?"
"I asked, wiping my still-dripping hair with a towel."
Jimmy pushed up his glasses: "Last week, we made an average of seven dollars a day, which is a little better than last month."
Viktor tapped his fingers on the ledger, his brow furrowing even more.
"The taxes on the two properties add up to more than $800 a year. When you add in the costs of sanitation and environmental pollution, the laundry's income barely breaks even."
He looked up, his gaze sweeping over his three partners. "We need to think of another way."
Michael shrugged. "That's how laundromats are, Victor. Stable, but low-profit."
"Stability does not equate to sufficiency."
Victor's voice was lower than usual. "I have an idea—a microfinance company. Just lending a couple hundred dollars, with interest rates higher than banks but lower than the mob."
The office suddenly fell silent.
Ethan and Michael exchanged a glance, while Jimmy simply shook his head.
Jimmy said firmly, "Those who can get credit cards are managed by banks, and those who can't are naturally taken care of by gangs. We can't get involved in either of those areas, and those who are stuck in the middle and won't lend to either side definitely won't pay back the money."
"We can offer better terms—"
Viktor wanted to argue further.
"Better conditions mean higher risks."
Jimmy interrupted him, “Do you know what kind of people borrow a hundred or two dollars? They’re either gamblers, drug addicts, or they’re really desperate. Either way, the repayment rate is horribly low.”
Viktor remained silent.
Jimmy was right, but he was unwilling to give up just like that.
"We have to try other approaches."
Jimmy stared at Victor for a few seconds, then suddenly laughed: "You're so stubborn it's a headache."
He opened a drawer and took out a document. "Remember the Nike stock you bought last year? Forty thousand shares, which cost less than twenty thousand US dollars at the time."
Victor nodded.
"Blair sent in the first quarter's earnings. That Bulls player named Michael brought Nike back to life and has now more than doubled in value to $55,000."
Jimmy pushed the documents over, saying, "Selling some of them will solve your cash flow problem."
Victor's finger hovered over the document for a moment, then he pushed it back: "Not for sale."
"why?"
Jimmy asked incredulously, "This is clearly the simplest solution!"
"Because I believe in this company—to be precise, I believe Jordan can make me more money."
Victor's voice was calm, but his eyes were firm. "The reason I make money is because I want to keep buying their stock."
Jimmy sighed. "Victor, business isn't a religion; it's like the waters of Lake Michigan, rising and falling. Sometimes you have to make practical choices."
"This is my choice."
Viktor stood up and walked to the window.
The snow outside has stopped, but the sky remains overcast.
"What I need is a business that can generate a continuous cash flow, not a one-time cash-out."
Silence fell over the office again.
Ethan and Michael tactfully withdrew, leaving only Jimmy and Victor behind.
Do you know what the problem is?
Jimmy finally spoke up, “You always see everything in too absolutes. Business is gray, Victor, not black and white.”
Victor turned around: "I understand, but does that mean I can't earn money from white people just because I'm of Chinese descent?"
"That's probably difficult, unless you work for someone else."
Jimmy stood up. "If possible, we could try the street vendor route? As long as we register with the police and pay taxes, no one will stop us. I looked around Chinatown, and although there aren't many vendors, it's very popular."
Victor's eyes lit up: "We can give it a try."
Jimmy pulled out a notebook he had prepared beforehand: "Let's make a plan!"