thefictionvixens Page 67
Page 67
The edges of the negative were neatly aligned: "Then tomorrow morning, the other half of the negative will be on your wife's dressing table. Another copy will be sent to the editor of The Washington Post."
Ubelman slammed his fist on the table, making the photo frame jump. Inside was a picture of him with the governor: "Do you fucking know who I am? I can make you and your gangster bastards disappear overnight!"
Old Joe didn't move an inch, not even blinking.
He was already used to this kind of bluffing threat: "Go ahead and do it. I guarantee you'll be on the evening news before me."
He leaned forward, his voice lowered to a whisper, yet more penetrating than any shout, “A congressman and a call girl—what a great headline, isn’t it? Especially when the lady is in the master’s position.”
The air in the office seemed to freeze.
Old Joe continued, "Isn't it even more interesting when your redneck voters find out you still picked Black?"
Ubelman's chest heaved violently, his eyes flashing with murderous intent and fear, like a wild beast trapped in a cage.
Old Joe knew this was the most crucial moment—the prey would either submit or fight back.
His hand quietly slid to the inside of his coat, where a .38 caliber pistol was hidden, the trigger already pulled.
The antique clock on the wall ticked heavily, time ticking away second by second.
The 1 o'clock deadline was like a sword hanging over our heads.
Finally, Ubelman reached for the phone, hesitated for a second over the buttons, and then pressed them down heavily.
"Get me the Chicago Police Chief."
He said through gritted teeth, his eyes fixed on Old Joe, as if trying to pin him to the wall with his gaze:
“Yes, I am Representative Ubelman. Regarding the boxer's case, that case has long been closed. Why are people still accusing the Chicago Police Department of incompetence? Do they want the whole country to know that the Chicago Police Department is inadequate in law enforcement?”
“Victor went out representing Chicago. How can we allow our people to suffer injustice? That would be dereliction of duty!”
"Ahead of one o'clock, send a statement to the USA Boxing Association and the Hilton Hotel in Colorado Springs regarding Victor's lack of involvement in sexual services. Also, state at the end of the statement that legal action will be taken against ESPN reporter Max Wilson for his personal actions that have defamed the Chicago Police Department's impartiality and competence."
"What do you mean you're taking a break now? Is this how you waste taxpayers' money?"
"What do you mean by overtime? I would suggest increasing your budget."
Old Joe listened quietly as Ubelman made all the calls as he had requested.
When the senator finished contacting the last gang leader—the underground figure who had reported the ESPN reporter—the clock struck exactly 12:45.
Third Master's voice was very low.
Sweat had soaked through the collar of Ubelman's shirt, leaving dark stains on his expensive silk tie.
"Now, hand over the negatives."
Ubelman commanded, his voice now devoid of any force.
Old Joe shook his head, stood up from his chair, and straightened his coat collar:
"At one o'clock, I will confirm that Victor has received my insurance."
He walked toward the door, then stopped without turning back. "Oh, right, Mr. Congressman, remember this—we'll live off this secret for the rest of our lives."
As the office door closed behind him, the sound of a heavy object falling to the ground echoed, and Old Joe finally allowed himself to let out a slight smile.
That same night, Veronica was shot 24 times in the back at home. The cause of death was determined to be a crime of passion committed by her live-in boyfriend, who had a family history of mental illness, suddenly fell ill, and was driven to hatred by love.
The nearby Old Joe's house and Victor's room were also burgled that night, but fortunately no one was injured.
······
It was 2 p.m. that day.
In the executive lounge on the seventeenth floor of the Hilton Hotel, Victor slammed his fist on the marble bar, making the ice cubes in his wine glasses clink.
"I'm going to kill this reporter! I said, not even Jesus could save him!"
He roared, his bronze face flushed with rage, the swelling and pain on his right cheek appearing even more grotesque:
Max was sweating—not because of Jesus, of course, because none of the people present believed in Jesus.
"Shut up, Victor, stop acting like a bull in heat. There are no bulls here!"
Max angrily berated Victor, flipping through the thick stack of printed papers in front of him with one hand, while rapidly speaking into his cell phone with the other:
“Old Joe, you need to be prepared. Ubelman is a complete idiot, and he might send gunmen to deal with you.”
"Don't be careless. Who can know what a fool is thinking? He's not going to consult anyone right now. He probably thinks that dealing with people is the best way."
"Yes, he's an amateur."
“It’s best for Ubelman to live, because at least if things come to light one day, Veronica can testify that nothing happened. It’s just a matter of paying her some money. But Ubelman is an idiot. He might try to cover it up and do something unnecessary.”
"Find his location! At our hotel? Good news, Jimmy. Draft a lawyer's letter, attach it to the Chicago Police Department's documents, and fax it to ESPN!"
"Don't worry about it! Don't be timid! ESPN has only been around for five years. Even if they have a lot of viewers, they wouldn't dare to go against the government! Besides, we said this is a personal matter!"
"Jimmy, send the Chicago Police Department's investigation report to the athletic shoe manufacturers and fitness equipment companies we've contacted. Don't go into too much detail; let them think we have the Chicago Police Department as our guarantor."
“Jimmy, you need to find the whistleblower, don’t touch him… What, it’s Mark? Wasn’t he in detention for mental illness due to being paralyzed, incontinent, having AIDS, syphilis or something?”
"Oh, so it's his father! What a loving father! Is there any way to shut him up?"
"Shut up, Jimmy, don't use gangster tactics!"
"Is this all the low-class tactics you, a lawyer, can offer? Your words are like the subway, all you do is rumble and stubbornly stick your neck out!"
"Give you advice? I'm not a lawyer. Are you going to give me a portion of your salary? What kind of education did you receive? Did your law class come from your gym teacher?"
"Oh, so it's because you didn't go to university."
"Jimmy, tax evasion? Cheating? We could even stage a shooting at the school! Use your tiny brain and come up with a plan to keep him from going against us!"
"A girl lost her virginity at their school? And she's Black? Jimmy, you're a genius, you and your friends are geniuses!"
“Jimmy, I knew you were the smartest. Use this to make their school board’s ‘quirks’ widely known and directly attack their board.”
"Tell the scandal at their school to the National Association of Minors, and they'll know what happens!"
"What do you mean by hymen damage caused by exercise? Jimmy, I know you're a lawyer, and you only tell the truth, but I didn't ask you to lie. Listen! Just tell the reporters and the association the whole truth:"
The words "sports," "hymenal rupture," "Black girl," "school board meeting," "parental suspicion," "Black girl afraid to speak out," "fear of graduation," etc., are all true. Just rearrange the order slightly, and you're guaranteed one thing: everything we're saying is the truth!
"Victor, stop going crazy here!"
Max hung up the phone and turned to Victor, immediately snapping, "The Chicago police have sent over their investigation report. Jimmy will handle the follow-up. We need to see the boxing association."
Victor grabbed the stack of papers; the Chicago Police Department badge on them gleamed coldly under the light.
"Explanation of the Investigation Regarding Victor's Non-Participation in Sexual Services"
That damn ESPN reporter Max Wilson published an 'exclusive report' claiming to have 'reliable sources' proving that Victor, the Chicago champion of the United States Boxing Championships, is involved in high-end prostitution.
This headline infuriated him even more—why should someone be attacked for earning money through their own abilities in free America? It's not fair!
"Are sixty servings enough?"
Lisa, the hotel's public relations director, strode into the lounge, followed by two waiters pushing document carts. "We've printed out the fax as requested by Ms. Max."
Max quickly flipped through the top document and nodded: "Perfect. Lisa, can you arrange for these to be sent to the conference center? The press conference starts in thirty minutes."
Victor watched as the documents were neatly stacked on the cart, and felt reassured—Max's abilities were truly remarkable.
The past two hours have been like a nightmare:
The sponsor's phone call suspending cooperation, the investigation notice from the US Boxing Association, and the hashtag #Boxer?Ham# that everyone was talking about for four weeks.
What broke his heart the most was when someone mocked Viktor as a "human"—Viktor remembered that person and vowed to beat him up if he ever met him.
"Remember, Viktor, control your emotions. You need to hold back before you erupt!"
Max pressed down on his shoulder. “At the press conference, you only need to say three things: First, this is malicious defamation; second, the police have proven your innocence; and third, you will pursue legal action. Leave the rest to me.”
Viktor nodded and took a deep breath.
He could withstand a heavy punch from his opponent, but this kind of sneak attack from behind caught him off guard.
Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, the night view of Colorado Springs unfolds beneath your feet, the lights like countless peering eyes.
To this day, Viktor does not believe that self-reliance was a mistake.
Chapter 55 Solution
The media center was already packed with people.
When Victor and Max walked in, a barrage of flashes went off.
Victor squinted and saw that the reporters in the front row already had the police certificate in their hands—good, Lisa's people were very efficient.
"Dear friends in the media,"
Max stood at the podium, his voice steady, "First of all, thank you for coming so quickly. Today we want to clarify a seriously inaccurate report..."
The reporters in front of me are all stationed here to cover the U.S. Boxing Championships.
Max gave each of them a bottle of wine worth twenty dollars—a considerable sum in 1985, when a bartender could afford twenty draft beers for twenty dollars.
Victor's gaze swept across the crowd, catching sight of a familiar figure in the back row—ESPN's Max Wilson, the reporter who had ruined his peaceful life.
The man was typing rapidly on his typewriter, seemingly unaware that he had become the center of attention.
"...After a thorough investigation, the Chicago Police Department's Special Investigations Unit has confirmed that Mr. Victor Lee was not involved in any illegal sex services..."
Max continued, as a magnified image of police documents appeared on the projector: "There is relevant evidence, and a series of investigation results."
The reporters began whispering among themselves, and many started revising their drafts.
Victor saw ESPN's Max Wilson turn pale—he had seen the Chicago Police Department's final words about pursuing his personal conduct.
This statement is essentially telling ESPN that the Chicago Police Department wants to kill reporter Max Wilson.
"...Therefore, we demand that Max Johnson immediately retract the false report and issue a public apology..."
Max's voice was suddenly interrupted by a sharp question.
"Ms. Black!"
A Sports Illustrated reporter stood up and asked, "Does this police document imply that ESPN reporter Max Wilson is guilty of intentional defamation?"
Victor saw Max Wilson suddenly look up, a flash of panic in his eyes.
Interestingly, all the cameras are now focused on Max Wilson, not on him, the protagonist of the scandal.