allendalepharm Page 23
Page 23
Three pairs of leather shoes—two pairs of police tactical boots and one pair of shiny Oxford shoes—treaded over the pizza boxes and empty beer cans scattered in the living room.
The sound of footsteps spread out on the wooden floor, forming a perfect triangular encirclement.
"Chicago Police! Search warrant!"
"Put down your gun! Put down your gun!"
The Latino officer's shout echoed off the bathroom tiles.
Victor slowly exhaled, looking at the red line seeping from the shaving foam on his left cheek in the mirror. His safety razor, which he had used for five years, had finally betrayed him today.
Throwing away the revolver, the group of police officers instantly pinned Victor to the ground.
"Victor Lee?"
When the lead officer kicked open the bathroom door, the razor was hanging three centimeters above his Adam's apple.
Three police badges were raised simultaneously, their metallic sheen gleaming too new under the warm bathroom light: "You are charged with illegal possession of a firearm! Engaging in illegal activities. We have a few questions that require your assistance in the investigation."
Victor turned around, holding the razor between two fingers, and noticed that the lead officer's left hand was on his holster, his knuckles white.
This detail made his lips twitch slightly—Chicago Police Department badge numbers begin with C, while the Latino man in front of him had a badge numbered D-1479.
The people in the Cook County Sheriff's Office are not ordinary patrol officers.
"Could I rinse off the foam, officer?"
Victor's voice sounded like sandpaper polishing a rusty steel pipe.
He deliberately let the razor slip from his fingers, the sound of the stainless steel blade bouncing on the tiled floor sending a shiver down the spine of the youngest officer.
"Put your hands where I can see them!"
As the Latino officer pulled out his handcuffs, Victor noticed a recently healed scar behind his ear, shaped like some kind of claw mark: "Turn around."
Viktor obediently faced the wall, his hands braced against the damp tiles.
As the metal handcuffs gripped his wrists, he smelled the distinctive odor of the interrogation room—a mixture of cheap coffee, sweat, and some kind of chemical cleaner.
These people had no intention of concealing their purpose.
“You should wait for my lawyer to arrive before you start questioning me.”
As Victor was pushed toward the living room, his bare toes hooked onto a crumpled T-shirt on the floor.
His 360-pound weight made the floor groan with every step he took, but he moved with surprising lightness, like a professionally trained bulldog.
The young officer scoffed, "A raid at six in the morning? You think we'd give you time to make a phone call?"
"It seems the young master with the 'diamond-level companionship service' had a great time last night."
He kicked away an empty protein powder bottle, clearly annoyed: "What level are you at? Using the same brand as me!"
Viktor's left eyelid twitched.
The fact that the police used this word means they have at least two or three days to prepare.
He let them put an old sweatshirt on him, his gaze sweeping over the ransacked bedroom—the spare pager in the bedside table drawer was gone, but the 'service notebook' hidden in the boxing manual box should still be there.
The police car was an unmarked Chevrolet, and the crash bars on the inside of the rear door had been specially reinforced.
As Victor bent down and crawled inside, he felt the Latino officer's breathing quicken at the back of his head.
These people had seen his file, knew what had happened in that toilet stall at Linkin Park High School, and knew just how outrageous his size and strength were in a fight within that confined space.
"seat belt."
The officer pronounced the word like a threat.
Viktor fumbled with his handcuffed hands to fasten the seatbelt, the metal links clanging silently.
As the police car drove past the Chinatown archway, he saw through the rain-streaked windows that the morning market vendors stopped what they were doing and watched the police car drive away.
Viktor saw a sign, suddenly ran over the police officer next to him, smashed his head against the police car window, and debris got into his scalp, leaving him bleeding profusely.
The officer flew into a rage and pressed a stun gun against Viktor's waist, but Viktor still yelled at the restaurant he often ate at: "Franky! Franky! I've been arrested by the cops! I've been arrested by the cops!"
Another stun gun was thrust into Viktor's neck.
With a sizzling sound, Viktor fell into a deep sleep.
But before he lost consciousness, he saw Franky's men leaving, presumably while he was on the phone.
When I woke up again, the fluorescent lights in the interrogation room looked like old parts salvaged from an abandoned hospital, buzzing and flickering irregularly.
Viktor's handcuffs were replaced with shorter ones, and the chains were locked directly to the steel table legs, forcing him to sit hunched over.
This posture is cleverly designed—it leaves no trace of torture and interrogation, and it makes the person being interrogated start begging for mercy after thirty minutes.
“Victor Lee, AKA 'Big V'.”
When Deputy Sheriff Keith slammed the folder on the table, Victor smelled the whiskey masked by mint gum.
The white sheriff, in his fifties, had bloodshot eyes and a wedding ring mark on his right ring finger, though it was now bare: "Do you know why I invited you here for tea?"
The photos were spread out on the table like fan ribs.
Victor saw his own silhouette in the porch of the Peninsula Hotel, his almost square body wrapped in a tuxedo, with a white woman wearing an emerald necklace beside him.
The second picture is from the Drake Hotel, where a red-haired woman in a mink coat is whispering something in his ear.
The watermark logo for "Diamond-level companionship service" is faintly visible in the corner of each photo.
"You work in 'deep emotional communication' and earn fifty dollars an hour?"
Keith poked Victor's face in the photo with a pencil, leaving a crescent-shaped indentation on the paper.
"Seriously, aren't these high-society bitches afraid of having their pelvises crushed by you?"
Officer Rodriguez let out an exaggerated laugh at the opportune moment, but his eyes remained fixed on Victor's shoulder and neck muscles.
Victor knew what they were waiting for—a good show of an angry, overweight Asian man losing control and attacking a police officer.
He twisted his handcuffed wrists, making the chains clang.
"I want to see a lawyer."
As Victor said this, he stared at the one-way mirror, knowing that at least two pairs of eyes were watching his pupils: "I will not answer any questions until my lawyer arrives."
Keith suddenly leaned down, his badge almost touching Victor's nose.
Victor smelled the odor of his bleeding gums: "We know what business Frankie Lee does in Chinatown."
The sheriff lowered his voice, "and he also knows why he goes to that strip club on Michigan Avenue every Wednesday night."
Victor's eyelashes didn't even tremble.
Frankie did go to Blue Paradise every Wednesday, but not to see strippers—the club's cold storage room had a back door that led directly to the Chicago mob's accounting office.
"But this is Chicago, kid."
Keith's breath hit Victor's face. "Not a single yellow-skinned person—"
"I will sue you for discrimination..."
The loud crash of the door being flung open interrupted Victor's words.
Frankie Lee stood in the doorway wearing a $3,000 Armani suit, followed by three lawyers carrying briefcases.
The way he took off his Ray-Ban sunglasses was like disarming some kind of weapon.
"Please pursuant to Section 725, Paragraph 5 of the Illinois Code of Criminal Procedure..."
The lead female lawyer's voice was as sharp as a scalpel: "You have seventeen minutes to decide whether to prosecute or release the person."
Victor noticed that his brother's right pinky finger was twitching slightly—a small gesture that Franky only made when he was extremely angry.
As the lawyers began examining the bruises on Victor's wrists, Franky quickly said in Hakka, "Mark reported that blond kid from high school whose scalp you ripped off."
In the monitoring room behind the one-way glass, Team Leader Jason Bege pressed the stop button on the recorder.
The gray-haired African American detective turned to criminal analyst Sofia Bush beside him: "Check all cross-border money flows in Frankie over the past three months, especially in Nevada."
His gaze pierced through the glass and landed on Victor, who was signing the release papers.
"Damn it, next time we need more professional people to handle these things!"
No upper-class woman would admit to having slept with Victor, or that the revolver was already registered... Everything was legal, and they couldn't fool this young boxer.
Sofia quickly scribbled on her computer, a strand of red hair slipping out of her bun and falling to her side: "You think he's connected to that Golden Triangle line?"
“Victor is an excellent amateur boxer.”
Jason took out a mint and popped it into his mouth. "Frankie just bought a nearly bankrupt freight company last month. If a gang wants to launder money, there are only a few ways, and choosing a celebrity is the easiest."
He stood up and straightened his suit, saying, "I'll prepare some 'specially prepared' training tools for the drug-sniffing dogs."
The door opened, and Jason's boss arrived, carrying an instruction. After reading it, Jason Bege felt a headache coming on: "Are the IRS people serious? They dare to issue this kind of certificate?"
Director Mai glanced at him and said, "Stop it. The IRS is only responsible for collecting taxes. Their actions are all legal!"
······
As Victor finally walked out of the police station, the Chicago sunset was like a spilled Bloody Mary splashed on the West Side buildings.
His shadow was stretched to an exaggerated proportion, like the shadow cast by a giant beast that had just awakened.
"Your matter is settled, but you need to pay seven thousand dollars to feed these lawyers. Now those fat women won't reveal your relationship with them."
Franky handed over a brand-new satellite phone: "It was indeed Mark who reported you. He's in college now, and every Friday after get off work he goes to the Moulin Rouge in the Old Town to see prostitutes."
He paused for a moment: "It will cost fifty thousand to resolve this."
“I don’t have $50,000. I’ll give you $7,000 tonight, Mark.”
Viktor took the phone, the metal casing crackling softly in his palm: "I'll give him a reason he can't refuse."
Chapter 20 I'll Give You a Reason You Can't Refuse
Victor Lee sat in the back seat of his old Chevrolet Caprice, his fingers tapping incessantly on the inside of the door.
The night in Chicago's South Side was like a thick black cloth shrouding the streets, with only the occasional flash of car lights and the distant wail of police sirens breaking the oppressive atmosphere.
His temples throbbed, not from the alcohol—he hadn't touched a drop tonight—but from the burning anger in his chest.
"Seven thousand US dollars! Just like that, gone! I fought four battles, risking my life, crippled two of them, and killed one, but I still didn't earn seven thousand US dollars!"