Chicago's Southside nights always hum with a restless edge—cheap beer, burnt grill smoke, and every now and then, a pop of gunfire or a siren wailing in the distance.
Victor shoved open the creaky wooden door of Alibi Bar, and the roar inside nearly knocked him back a step.
"VICTOR! THE FAR EAST FAT TIGER'S HERE!"
Somebody yelled it first. Then the whole joint went nuts.
Twenty-plus pairs of eyes snapped to the door. Victor felt the mix—admiration, jealousy, straight-up scheming.
He rocked his signature work jacket, a Band-Aid under his left eye—let 'em think I'm banged up. Keeps 'em guessing.
Big grin. Canines flashing.
"Drinks on me tonight!"
He threw a hand up, voice drowning out the old jukebox blues. "One draft for everybody!"
Bartender Kevin whistled, hauling out half a dozen kegs from under the bar.
Rough-around-the-edges businessman, sloppy husband. "Our Southside champ's feelin' generous," he smirked, wiping his hands on a rag. "That'll be seventy-five bucks."
Victor slapped a wad of crumpled bills on the bar—top twenty still had a smear of blood.
"Pocket change," he shrugged. "Last week's purse could buy the whole Southside a round."
Kevin grinned. "Then you definitely gotta do it in my bar!"
"Ha! Bet."
Kevin glanced at the Band-Aid and bounced.
But Victor stayed put. Classic move from The Godfather—even a knuckle-dragger like me's seen it: Whoever asks first is the rat.
Sure enough, in the corner, Frank Gallagher looked up from his poker table. Those cloudy blue eyes glinted like a fox in the dim light.
Most unreliable Gallagher of the bunch. "Victor, what happened to your face?"
Hook, line, sinker. Victor laughed loud. "Just a scratch! How much you up?"
Frank raised his whiskey. "Ain't got much to play with."
"Heard you turned 'Polish Hammer' into hamburger—his own mom wouldn't recognize him."
Victor took the whiskey Kevin slid over, walked to Frank's table.
"Kid's got hard fists," he said, sipping. The amber burn lit up his throat. "But only one chin. Cute pointy chin—too bad it couldn't stop my sledgehammer."
Kevin leaned in with his own glass, voice low. "Real talk, Victor—top-10 round-robin in two days. Any inside scoops?"
He rubbed his fingers together—money gesture. "Listened to you last time, paid three months' rent."
Victor scanned the room—no eavesdroppers—then leaned in. Big stuff? Keep it locked. Useless hype? Shout it loud.
He could smell Kevin's cologne mixed with onion rings, and the weed cloud drifting off Frank.
"Out of the nine other bums in the top ten? I'm the only one who matters!"
He said it loud enough for three tables to hear, slurring just enough to sound half-drunk. "I could knock 'em out blindfolded."
Tapped his temple. "Boxing ain't just muscle—it's padding. Nobody's punching through my five-layer armor!"
Frank snorted. "Save it, kid. Southside fights go to whoever's meanest. Your mind games don't work on the street."
Victor didn't bite. Just sipped slow, let the silence hang.
Ears all over the bar perked up.
"Speaking of mind games…"
He switched gears, casual, tapping his glass with a fingernail. "Heard Reggie from Foucault Gym's in deep s lately?"
"His little Black sidepiece showed up with a kid—court ordered sixteen hundred a month in child support."
Frank's eyebrows shot up. "Sixteen hundred? Cruiserweight makes that kinda cash?"
Victor smirked inside. Fish on.
"Reggie's their golden boy," he shrugged. "But he's been off—can't sleep, zoning out in training…"
He dragged it out. "Wonder who's pocketing that sixteen hundred now!"
Frank's eyes lit up—Victor could hear the abacus clicking in his head.
Kevin stroked his chin, glancing between them.
"Gotta bounce," Victor stood suddenly. "Morning training."
He "accidentally" dropped a few bills by Frank's feet. Old hustler snatched them up like a frog snagging flies.
---
Three days later.
Chicago Elite Boxing Club.
Sweat dripped off Victor's brow, catching the spotlight like liquid gold.
Chest heaving, every breath tasting like rust and blood.
The gym was a sauna—cheap cigars, BO, stale beer. Suffocating.
His opponent—"Iron Block" Tommy, a white boxer—hit the canvas for the third time.
Tommy's proud blond curls were matted with blood and sweat, plastered to his face.
He tried pushing up on shaking arms—right elbow buckled, face-planting back into the sweaty, bloody mat.
"…Seven! Eight!…"
Ref's hoarse count barely cut through the crowd's manic roar.
The noise bounced off the tin roof like a cult revival.
"Get up, Tommy! I got my rent on you!"
Some guy in a wrinkled suit screamed from the second row, tie crooked, face red from rage and whiskey.
Victor licked his cracked lip—blood sparked his nerves.
A thin stream trickled from the cut over his eyebrow, but pain? Old friend. Five years of high school beatdowns taught him to hug it.
At eight, Tommy staggered up. Eyes glassy.
Legs like wet noodles, knees knocking.
Victor saw it—pure animal panic. The look prey gets when death's locked in.
No mercy.
Muscle memory took over—textbook right hook ripped through humid air, cracked ribs. Tommy's guard dropped from pain.
Uppercut. Clean. Chin.
Tommy flew back like a marionette with cut strings, bounced off the ropes, slid to the mat. Out.
The gym exploded—cheers, curses, betting slips raining like confetti.
Victor stood under the lights, sweat gleaming on bronze skin, fresh and old bruises telling stories.
Ref raised his arm. No rush of victory.
Just the usual hollow pit in his gut—like swallowing lead.
"Beautiful combo! Liver shot into hook!"
A gravelly voice behind him.
Victor turned—Coach Old Jack, face like a dried apple, suit two sizes too big, tie still rocking lunchtime marinara.
"Tommy's gonna see your fists in his nightmares."
Victor ducked through the ropes, ignoring slaps and high-fives.
Headed straight for the locker room. Joey jogged behind his bulk.
Jason Cruz, his manager, pushed through the crowd, towel and water bottle ready.
"Got news," Jason whispered. "Reggie's done. Frank brought the chick and kid right to Foucault's door. Reggie signed the check on the spot."
Victor wiped his face, hiding a grin.
"Frank works fast," he muttered. "Two days. I gave him a week."
Jason handed over his phone—Reggie's social, posted five minutes ago: "Fing Gallaghers."
Victor tossed it back, dodging Old Jack.
"So he's bleeding sixteen hundred a month now?"
Old Jack was catching on.
"Yup. Plus his other bills—guy's drowning."
Old Jack got it. Before leaving: "Dirty tricks don't last, kid. You wanna eat off boxing, you can't live on outside bulls."
Jason bristled. "Who's he think he is? We don't need Foucault Gym no more!"
Victor cut him off. "Nah, he's right. I ain't ready for pro rings yet. Outside moves work—but the real fight's in the ring."
"So what about Reggie?"
"Jason—what'd you find when you went?"
Jason grinned. "Didn't even need to plant anything. Found Reggie's dealer. Dude says Reggie eight hundred a month at least. Next drop? Tuesday."
"Tuesday?"
Victor thought. "That's three days. Hit him."
"We can't touch it—makes Frankie look bad. Can't have Black touching White."
Victor nodded. "Tell Frank he can make a score."
"How?" Michael's brain wasn't keeping up.
"Cut a note outta newspapers. Tell Frank: call the cops first, then shake Reggie down. He'll make bank."
Jason laughed. "You're a real piece of work."
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