RNP Page 35
Page 35
The clear sound of bones breaking even drowned out the screams of the audience.
Tom curled up like a shrimp, pink foam spilling from his mouth.
"Two minutes and forty seconds! The victor—Victor Far East Tiger Lee..."
The referee raised Victor's arm, while Victor coldly looked down at his opponent convulsing on the ground.
This is Victor's 18th consecutive victory, and it came so easily.
But not everyone likes it!
"Fuck the Chinese!"
Antonio Couch, the second-in-command of the Italian mafia, stubbed out his cigar in the crystal ashtray. "We lost another 40,000 on him this week! Those damn gamblers are all betting with him! They win as long as he bets!"
Kuch's office is located on the top floor of an unassuming brown brick building in Chicago, with a view of the East River at night.
But none of the three men in the room were in the mood to appreciate the scenery.
Sean White, an Irish gangster, took a big gulp of whiskey: "It's worse over there, 120,000. Those dockworkers have staked their wives' fortunes on Victor."
He wiped the sweat from his red nose. "We have to do something, Antonio. If this continues, we'll be squeezed out of the market by those yellow-skinned bastards."
Just as Kuch was about to answer, there was a gentle knock on the office door.
His bodyguard poked his head in: "Sir, Mr. Srey has sent a message."
The two gang leaders exchanged a glance.
Srui (Third Master) is the head of the Chinese community organization Green Dragon Society. He controls most of the underground casinos in the Southern District and more than half of the boxers, commanding a force of at least 1,900 people.
Receiving his message at this critical juncture is no coincidence.
Kuch unfolded the gold-edged note, which contained only a single line: "Tomorrow at 3 PM, Xiangmanlou, about Victor. Don't bring a pager or a Motorola."
White leaned over to look, then frowned and asked, "What about Black Jack? Didn't he receive an invitation?"
Kuchi sneered, "It seems Sri finally understands who the real partner is."
Inside the "Bamboo Rhyme" private room at Xiangmanlou, the air was filled with the fragrance of sandalwood.
The third master, who was over fifty years old, was wearing a dark blue Zhongshan suit, and his hair was neatly combed back.
He was slowly and deliberately brewing a pot of Pu'er tea, his movements as elegant as if he were performing some kind of religious ritual.
The door to the private room was pushed open, and Kuchi and White walked in after being searched by the bodyguards.
Third Master spoke without looking up, his voice so soft it was almost inaudible.
The two gang leaders obediently sat down, forming a three-sided, most stable position.
Although they were all the most powerful and influential figures in their own territories, they instinctively maintained a respectful demeanor in front of Sri, who had the most people and the most ability to mobilize them.
This is not only because Third Master controls Chicago's largest underground gambling network, but also because of the rumor that those who oppose him eventually disappear without a trace.
“Victor’s matter,”
Third Master pushed two cups of tea in front of the guests, saying, "His victory should end now. We can't let him become a burden on our money-making."
White asked impatiently, "What do you mean? You're going to make him lose?"
Third Master smiled slightly, fine wrinkles forming at the corners of his eyes: "I've already talked to him, and he agrees with my point of view, believing that the most important thing for him right now is still the US dollar."
Kuch whistled.
Hansen is a well-known heavy hitter in the South. Although his technique is rough, his power to knock someone out with a single punch is famous in the circle. However, compared to Victor, he is still much weaker.
So if that's the case, Chinese gangs will profit the most—of course, everyone will profit a lot.
"Will Victor agree?"
"Chinese people value honor very much," Kuch asked skeptically. "Wouldn't he cherish his undefeated record as much as he cherishes his second-place son?"
Third Master took a sip of tea. "Victor is a sentimental person; he values loyalty and friendship. I've also helped him before, so I was able to persuade him."
White looked enlightened, while Kuch cautiously asked, "Why are you telling us this?"
"Because of the benefits, because of what I have given."
Third Master put down his teacup. "Victor's winning streak has caused the casino huge losses. So far, I've lost almost $350,000. It's time to get the money back in the right place."
He gave the two of them a meaningful look. "I suggest you think about it."
"How much do you want?"
“I gave Viktor $90,000, not including the $50,000 for first place.”
"Ninety thousand? A mere..."
“He deserves that much, I’ll pay 30,000.”
"Okay, I'll put up 30,000 too."
Does Jack know about this?
White suddenly asked.
Third Master's smile vanished: "Jack James and his 'Black Panthers' are too greedy. They think they can live off heroin for life. You know, senators can accept prostitutes, gambling, and immigration, but they will never support drugs. Besides, Chicago is too small to accommodate four gangs."
He shook his head slightly. "Some lessons can only be learned through personal experience."
Kuch and White exchanged an excited glance.
If Victor does lose the next match, this will be a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to turn things around.
Moreover, judging from this, Third Master's ambitions are not small.
"What are the odds?"
三爷身旁一人拿出表格，上面显示着最新的赌盘：“目前是维克托1赔1.2，汉森1赔4.5。比赛前半小时，赔率会调整到维克托1赔1.05，汉森1赔6。”
He paused, then said, "I suggest you take some control, ideally to the point where Jack's gang has no funds."
Kooch was already mentally calculating how much capital he could mobilize. If he bet 500,000, at odds of 1 to 4.5... it wasn't just a matter of money!
If the Black gangs can't afford to pay compensation, then people will cause trouble.
Black people are not afraid of being rioted because they are experts at causing trouble themselves.
But what if the people causing trouble in a Black gang are Black themselves?
Third Master gave a number: "We selected more than sixty people, each with a bet ranging from fifty to one hundred US dollars. As long as they place their bets at Jack's place, Jack will definitely suffer a big loss."
White thought for a moment: "I can find a hundred people."
Kuchi pondered for a moment: "I can find a hundred people too."
“That’s great. I’ll find forty more people. Three hundred black men will make it impossible for Jack to come up with the money.”
"still have a question,"
Kuch suddenly became alert. "Does Foucault know about this? That old fox is not easy to deal with."
"Foucault would cooperate."
Third Master said softly, "After all, who doesn't have a few people they want to protect?"
Kuch laughed heartily, raising his teacup: "To our cooperation!"
White raised a question: "How should we divide it?"
This is naturally Jack's territory.
“No need to divide.”
Third Master suggested: "Make sure there are a dozen or so small gangs inside, and that we can collect money from them. Then let them continue selling heroin. We'll control them with alcohol, gambling, and prostitutes, and we'll take down their big gangs at any time."
"good idea."
White agreed: "I agree, those black guys are only suited for hard labor."
Third Master raised his glass, looking at the two jubilant gang leaders with his unfathomable eyes: "We will get Chicago! Let's celebrate our impending victory."
"What should we do with Viktor?"
“Foucault’s boxing gym signed him. We can’t fight against such a capitalist institution, especially since, as you know, Foucault and old Jack are both close confidants of Major General William Fisher Dean. They were the ones who rescued Major General Dean. They have always been protected by the military. We can’t afford to offend Foucault too much.”
······
Viktor stood shirtless in front of the gym mirror, admiring his granite-like physique of muscles and fat.
Eighteen consecutive wins, each victory leaving its mark on him—those bruises, like medals, testify to his strength.
"Hansen is next,"
Michael pushed the door open and came in, his voice a little hoarse, "The day after tomorrow!"
Victor grinned: "Hansen? I got it!"
Michael looked at Victor: "Do we have to lose?"
Victor was adamant: "Gangs are vampires. Unlike politicians who take advantage of you and then clean up your mess, they devour you whole, blood and flesh. If we want to leave the South, we have to feed them first!"
"We can leave now!"
Michael was puzzled: "Their influence cannot extend to other cities."
"so what?"
Viktor's long-thought-out plan will not be rejected: "The gang will not like their cash cow leaving unless it is dead. Third Master is willing to let me leave because my malnutrition has made me no longer of great value, so I can leave."
How can we help you?
"Remember to invite Kevin and the others the day after tomorrow, because the two of you can't carry me."
Chapter 30 The Cicada Sheds its Shell and Escapes
Viktor could feel his stomach devouring him.
The hunger of not eating for 24 hours was like a dull knife, rapidly absorbing the food that had already digested everything in his large intestine, while the gastric juices were slowly and continuously cutting into his internal organs.
Standing in front of the mirror in the locker room, he saw his protruding fat clearly visible under his pale skin, like a row of piano keys for sale—it was truly unsightly.
"Are you sure you want to do this?"
Kevin leaned against the doorframe, his accent tinged with obvious worry. "We can make up an excuse, but you don't need to do this. I'm worried you'll be torn to shreds by those outside! Americans who lose money are far angrier than Americans who get cuckolded!"