thefictionvixens Page 174
Page 174
But the chaos did not escape the eyes of the Federal Bureau of Investigation (FBI).
Washington headquarters took note of the unusual unrest in Chicago and the potential clues to organized crime—they weren't just another CIA 600 in the military-industrial complex who only knew how to collect project funding.
Special Agent David Ross, a seasoned and tough veteran agent, is assigned to lead a team to Chicago to conduct an investigation.
Ross was tall, with grey-blue eyes that held an unquestionable authority and a hint of disgust for criminal instincts. He believed that law and order could penetrate any fog.
However, Ross's trip to Chicago encountered unexpected obstacles from the very beginning.
When his team had just set up a temporary office in Chicago and was preparing to interview relevant individuals, including the rising star Victor Lee, the first person to receive the "advice" call was not the Chicago Police Department, but the Chicago office of the Internal Revenue Service (IRS).
The new director of the IRS Chicago office, Lawrence Fitzgerald, a seemingly polite but firm Irish-American official, personally received Ross.
"Agent Ross, welcome to Chicago."
Director Fitzgerald smiled, but his tone was anything but warm: “I understand the FBI’s responsibilities, but regarding Mr. Victor Lee, I must remind you that besides being a world-renowned boxing champion, he is also a model taxpayer.”
"Exemplary taxpayer?"
Rose raised an eyebrow. The world boxing champion was just a monkey in a circus, not worth his attention, but the word 'role model' gave his tone a sarcastic edge.
"As far as I know, the speed at which he accumulated his wealth and the areas he was involved in are hard to describe as 'exemplary'."
“We are government agencies, and we need to provide evidence when we speak. Do I need to remind you of that, sir? Or can you mobilize Illinois warships and fighter jets?”
Fitzgerald took a cigar from the exquisite cedar box and slowly trimmed it:
"Detective, in my field, we only look at the numbers. Mr. Li, and his various companies, have paid more than $47 million in taxes over the past eighteen months."
The amount was substantial, the process was clear, and there were no delays. This included revenue from his legally operated casinos, and... well, proceeds from the disposal of some rather unusual assets.
"Special assets? Like the 'dirty money' left behind by those wiped-out gangs? And the monthly tributes that gangs still pay each year?"
Ross took a step closer, his gaze sharp.
“Detective, regardless of the original source of the funds, as long as they are declared in accordance with the law and the full amount of taxes and penalties are paid, they are clean with the IRS.”
Fitzgerald lit a cigar, exhaled a puff of smoke that blurred the expression on his face, and said, “Mr. Li has shown great sincerity in cooperating with us. Forty-seven million dollars, Agent, that can support many government employees and build a lot of public facilities.”
Chicago needs this kind of funding. In my view, a citizen's tax record is a crucial measure of their contribution to society. And Mr. Li's record is impeccable.
Ross felt an invisible but incredibly thick wall.
He understood that Fitzgerald didn't care about or believe Victor's innocence, but that huge sum of tax money was a real achievement and departmental benefit.
The new director, having accepted this "generous gift" laundered from illicit funds, naturally had to provide protection.
The IRS’s independence became Victor’s best shield—the FBI’s investigation struggled to find a breakthrough in the face of the tax issue, because the FBI had more guns, more people, and more powerful cannons.
······
After being rebuffed by the tax office, the FBI turned to the Chicago Police Department for support, particularly the precinct responsible for policing the South Side.
However, the situation here is even more troublesome for Ross.
The Southern District Police Department has just undergone personnel changes, and the new division chief is a Chinese American named Li Zhibin.
His father was a Chinese immigrant who came to the country in the early years, and his mother was of Irish descent, which gave him a face with mixed Eastern and Western features.
Li Zhibin is highly capable and has been promoted rapidly, but his appointment to this position at this sensitive time inevitably raises questions.
Ross attempted to access records of several recent cases that might be related to Victor's subordinates, particularly reports on the actions of a troublesome figure named Frankie—rumored to be Victor's brother and a crude but effective middleman.
However, the response from Branch Chief Li Zhibin was official and detached.
"Agent Ross, the Southern District Police Department is fully cooperating with the federal investigation,"
Li Zhibin's English was completely accent-free, and his calmness bordered on indifference. "All the documents you need are here. Regarding Frankie's actions, we have closed the case and determined it to be a gang fight, caused by a conflict between the police and criminals. It has nothing to do with Frankie. The on-site handling may have been a bit rushed, but police resources were strained at the time. You know the recent situation... If you need, you can come and check the files yourself."
Ross flipped through the report about one of Franky's operations. It was too clean, with vague details and single testimonies, as if it had been carefully polished to erase all possible clues pointing to Victor.
He looked up at Li Zhibin's calm, unwavering eyes, trying to find a trace of panic or concealment, but found nothing.
Is it because of the implicit loyalty brought about by half-blood ties?
Or had Victor already woven this protective net in other ways?
Ross had no idea, but he was certain that the Chicago Police Department, at least the South Precinct, was no longer a reliable ally.
As Li Zhibin saw Ross off, he seemingly casually added, "Chicago is complicated, Agent Ross. Sometimes, apparent order is more important than delving into the chaos beneath. Victor Lee... he's a friend of the entire South."
This sounded like advice, but Ross heard a warning in it.
······
Just as the FBI's investigation was struggling and blocked by an invisible net, Victor, at the center of the storm, seemed detached from everything.
He was neither basking in the joy of the successful acquisition nor showing the slightest concern about the FBI investigation—because he was bound to fail, and several of Agent Ross's men were reporting news every day.
His entire attention was focused on a seemingly absurd boxing match.
He invited Mickey Green, nicknamed "The Beast," a second-rate boxer known in the Black community for his fierce and aggressive nature, to participate in an exhibition match.
The contract terms for this game were extremely unfair: Green only received a paltry $3 appearance fee, while Victor enjoyed a staggering $1200 million in compensation plus a massive 40% share of the box office revenue.
The news caused an uproar.
Mitch Green felt deeply insulted and launched a tirade in the media, accusing Victor of exploiting him for publicity and profiting from the attention of the Black community.
"This is robbery! This is contempt for me! Who does he think he is?"
Green roared during the interview, veins bulging on his neck.
But Viktor offered no further response, only one sentence:
"I am the boxing champion, who are you?"
His silence was more like a condescending contempt.
He insisted on playing, and the match was scheduled for January 20, 1987, at Madison Square Garden in New York—a stage that could attract global attention.
To outsiders, this might seem like Viktor's inflated vanity, or just another shrewd business stunt.
Only those in his innermost circle know the truth.
In Victor's luxurious yet deserted office, he summoned Frankie.
Franky is absolutely loyal to Victor.
Victor didn't look at him, but focused on watching the video of Mitch Green's past games playing on the wall.
"His technique is crude; he only has brute force."
Victor's voice was calm and even, as if he were commenting on an object, "196 cm tall, two-meter wingspan, 230 pounds... good stats, but nothing to worry about. He's not a real opponent."
In the videotape, Green is seen knocking down his opponent with a powerful punch, letting out a beast-like roar.
Victor turned off the TV.
"Frankie,"
He turned around, his gaze falling on his subordinate for the first time. "When I'm standing in the boxing ring in New York, with all the spotlights on me, I need you in Brooklyn to get things done."
Franky grinned, revealing teeth stained yellow from cigar smoke:
"Don't worry, Mitch Green won't have any friends visiting him while he's in the hospital!"
Chapter 148 Agents, Competition, and Cooperation
Time passed in a tense atmosphere, and the fight on January 20th drew ever closer. Racial tensions in Chicago were further fueled by the boxing match's unfair terms.
Many Black citizens viewed the game as a public exploitation and humiliation of the Black community by Victor, and calls for a boycott continued.
Victor didn't do that, because the Black people in Chicago knew they could always get a 20% discount on food delivery services on the street—20% off! White people had to pay full price.
Some white people, however, watched with a spectator's mindset, and some even admired Victor's "business acumen" and "courage."
FBI agent Ross did not give up.
The obstruction from the tax authorities and the police only fueled his competitive spirit.
He changed his strategy, bypassing official channels and trying to find a breakthrough from the grassroots level:
Those white small business owners who were forced to sell their properties (but most of them have left Chicago and dare not say much), and those petty thugs who frequented the area around Victor's properties.
However, Victor's rule was monolithic, and fear and self-interest intertwined in an impenetrable web, leaving Ross with little to gain.
He only felt Victor's shadow everywhere, like a huge ghost, shrouding the South Side of Chicago, and then one night, Agent Ross shot and killed two black men in self-defense—Agent Ross successfully became the kindling in the torch.
Agent Ross received a call from his superiors claiming he had caused a bad impression in Chicago, and the Brooklyn Eagle revealed that Agent Ross had wasted taxpayers' money—Agent Ross was given an executive leave.
Meanwhile, Viktor underwent closed training.
His training facility is heavily guarded.
He looked to be in excellent condition, calm and focused, as if the game ahead was just going to be easy.
Occasionally, the media captures him with sharp eyes and well-defined muscles, showing no signs of stress.
Mickey Green, on the other hand, had a chaotic and angry training camp.
He roared every day, complaining about appearance fees, cursing Viktor, and channeling all his resentment into a frenzy during training.
His supporters rallied in his defense, their emotions running high—and then Madison Square Garden gave him a $20,000 raise on his appearance fee.
The significance of this match has long transcended the realm of sports; it has become a matter of personal vendetta.
Early spring in New York is bitterly cold.
On January 20, 1987, outside Madison Square Garden, neon lights flickered in the cold wind, illuminating the crowds queuing to enter in a dazzling array of colors.
Luxury cars slowly drove up to the red carpet, where socialites, movie stars, and sports tycoons, dressed in glamorous attire, entered the stadium amidst flashing lights.
Inside the stadium, the air felt like it was on fire.
All 19,000 seats were occupied, the air thick with the mingling of cigar smoke and expensive perfumes, and the cacophony of voices surged like a tidal wave.
The eyes of the entire United States, and even the eyes of boxing fans around the world, are focused on this.
This is not your average boxing title defense; it's a clash between two worlds—a showdown between Victor Lee, a rising Chinese-American star from Chicago, and Mickey "Beast" Green, a local Brooklyn bully.
In the backstage dressing room, Viktor Lee sat in a corner with his eyes closed, listening to explosive Soviet military music through his headphones.
Standing at 186 centimeters tall and weighing 400 pounds, he doesn't look like a traditional boxer; at first glance, he appears quite clumsy.
But Victor's muscles are clearly defined yet exceptionally coordinated, without any sense of bulkiness.