Shanghai Twilight

by Matthew Legare

  “Can we speak in English please?” Mei-chen asked, without any vestige of a Chinese accent. “I want to practice.”

  “Of course,” Tom said, switching languages. “I see those Bob Haring records I bought are paying off.”

  Tom sat down and smiled at Mei-chen, holding her in a silent embrace. Waved black hair surrounded her elegant face down to her chin, accentuating her dark brown eyes. Her slender body filled out the snug-fitting cheongsam so tightly, she might as well have been sewn into it. She flashed a smile back but there were no overt displays of affection. Despite the open secret of their relationship, during work hours, Ho Mei-chen was just another one of the many taxi dancers at Club Twilight. Until they were properly married, at least.

  “How did your dinner go?” she asked.

  “Yes, do tell us all about it,” Whitfield said, leaning closer. “Did the Nationalist Party offer anything good this time?”

  Tom groaned and rubbed his temple. “It wasn’t a business deal. More of a shakedown than anything.”

  “Again?” Mei-chen practically sneered.

  “Confound it, Tom, after all the money you’ve given them I’m surprised they haven’t appointed you the mayor of Shanghai yet,” Whitfield said, shaking his head.

  “I know, I know, but if Gimo needs the money then I’m happy to give. The Nanking Government is strapped for cash these days.”

  “That’s because the Kuomintang is riddled with thieves,” Mei-chen hissed.

  The barbed insult stung because it was so true. Although it was the best hope for a modern, progressive China, the Nationalist Party had attracted hordes of unscrupulous riff-raff since assuming power four years earlier. Crooks and grifters flocked to its ranks, using patriotism as a way of lining their pockets. But such was politics in any country.

  A white man in a dark blue sailor’s uniform approached and offered a little bow. “Scuse me, gentlemen, but is this Miss Ho Mei-chen?”

  “The one and only,” she said in English.

  “Me mates told stories of how you was the prettiest bird in all of Shanghai. I was wondering if I might dance with you,” he said, extending a ticket.

  The man’s cockney accent told that Mei-chen’s reputation had traveled far and wide. She glanced back to Tom, who gave an approving nod. She extended her gloved hand and the sailor accepted. They strode out to the dance floor as the band struck up “Chinatown, My Chinatown.”

  “A fine crowd here tonight,” Whitfield said with a sigh. “I imagine this is how Rome looked just before the Visigoths sacked it.”

  “When do you think it will start?”

  “Soon, at least that’s the consensus at the Consulate. Tokyo is howling mad about those that Nipponese monk being killed by a Chinese mob. But what’s really hurting them is the boycott of their goods. In this depression, the Japs need all the cash they can get.”

  “Can’t the American Government mediate peace?”

  Whitfield gave him a stern look, like a parent scolding a child. “You’ve been away from the States too long, Tom. The depression is all President Hoover cares about these days. Apart from saying we won’t recognize any government the Japs set up in Manchuria, that’s all we’ll do. Besides, most Americans can’t even tell the difference between Japan and China, so there’ll be no outcry from John Q. Public.”

  “What about the League of Nations? Hell, resolving conflicts is why it was set up in the first place!”

  Whitfield gave a bitter laugh. “The League is nothing more than a bad joke. Japanese bombers could level Shanghai and all they’ll do in Geneva is issue a stern denouncement.”

  Tom wanted to sink into his chair. “Thanks, Chuck. I appreciate your honesty.”

  “Well, maybe you’ll appreciate some more. You need to get out of Chapei. This is the first place the Japs will attack. Hell, get out of Shanghai altogether.”

  Now it was Tom’s turn to laugh. “All the boats are booked up.”

  “Then take Mei-chen and high-tail it into the International Settlement or the French Concession. The Japs can’t attack there without having to deal with Britain and France.”

  “I won’t abandon my club, Chuck.”

  “It’s just a business, Tom.”

  “No, it’s more than that. I built Club Twilight out of a dilapidated warehouse and greased palms until it turned a profit. This is my ticket to a better life, not just in Shanghai but also in America.”

  Whitfield raised his blonde eyebrows. “You’re going back?”

  “Eventually…with her.” Tom jerked a thumb over to Mei-chen, foxtrotting with the British sailor. “But until then, I need this club and hell, so does China. It’s because of Club Twilight that I can be so generous with my donations to Gimo.”

  Whitfield snapped his fingers. “Exactly my point, old boy! The Japs know how much you’ve supported Chiang Kai-shek. Being an American means you’re safe in peacetime but during war...well, accidents happen.”

  Tom snorted. “The 19th Route Army won’t just roll over and play dead.”

  “Aw hell old boy, you know the Japs will lick them.”

  Of course, Tom had his doubts but such insults from a gweilo foreigner couldn’t go unchallenged, even if Whitfield was a friend.

  “That’s to be determined. The Japanese only have their Naval Marines stationed in Shanghai. No Army troops since they’re all up north tromping around in Manchuria. The 19th Route Army has General Tsai leading it – probably the best soldier in China except for Gimo – and it outnumbers the Japs five to one.”

  Whitfield pursed his lips. “Do you believe that?”

  Tom shrugged. “I have to. Regardless of who wins, I’m not leaving Club Twilight.” Tom said, before adding, “My—our future depends on it.”

  “At least send the poor kid to a hotel in the International Settlement,” Whitfield pleaded. “The Cathay or the Astor House—”

  “Lots of reporters from out of town have booked up all the hotels there. They’re waiting for the fireworks to start so they can have a front row seat.”

  Whitfield was about to protest again, but closed his mouth as Yan Ping approached their table with rapid steps.

  “Mr. Lai, there are several men just arrived and wish to speak with you. I showed them to the back room.”

  Tom frowned and asked, “Who?”

  Worry clouded Yan’s face. “The Green Gang,” he said, leaning closer. “They said not to keep them waiting.”

  Only Shanghai’s notorious crime syndicate could terrify a battle-hardened soldier like Yan Ping. Not only were they the lords of the city’s underworld, but also respectable allies of the Kuomintang. One couldn’t refuse their invitation without insulting both parties. Fear tightened Tom’s throat and quickened his heartbeat, but he masked it. Face was important in China, especially Shanghai.

  “If you’ll excuse me,” Tom said, standing up. Whitfield gave an understanding nod, sympathy shining in his blue eyes. As he followed Yan past the dance floor, he gave Mei-chen a longing look, just in case it was their last.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Three men awaited Tom in the storage room, sitting around a small table. He dismissed Yan with a casual nod. After all, it might insult the Green Gang to keep a bodyguard around and cause a loss of face. Better to stand your ground with a respectful yet stoic manner. After a moment, Yan walked out but not before looking back with a weary expression. Tom refocused his attention on the men.

  Two of them wore traditional changshan long shirts, flat caps, and the same thick, brutish faces that gangsters of every country possessed. Their leader, however, looked distinctly American in a black pinstripe suit, fedora, and overcoat. Feng Lung-wei resembled a member of the Chicago Mob more than Shanghai’s Green Gang. Flanked by two big ears, his large head was decorated with hooded eyes, a wide nose, and thin lips. Barely twenty years old, this fresh-faced brat was the terror of Shanghai, running amok throughout the city like a mad dog with impunity. Being a nephew of Tu Yueh-sheng, the Grandmaster o
f the Green Gang, had its perks.

  “Hello Tommy, what’s the bumpus?” Feng asked in English, flashing a grin. He’d learned enough of the language by watching gangster pictures like Little Caesar and The Public Enemy, and by reading lurid pulp magazines like Black Mask and True Detective Mysteries.

  “Hello, Feng Lung-wei,” Tom said, taking a seat across from him. “That’s ‘rumpus,’ by the way.”

  Feng ignored the correction and said, “Nice joint you have back here. Lots of unused space.” He gestured around to the stacked crates of liquor, food, and other supplies. “Plenty of room for an opium den or a gambling house.”

  Tom shook his head. “Not in my club.”

  “A Chinese who doesn’t chase the dragon or gamble?” Feng shook his head. “You really are a Yankee at heart, Tommy.”

  “I love the fan-tan as much as anyone, but it’s your uncle’s domain. That was the deal we made when I opened this place up.”

  Tom flipped open his gold cigarette case and offered some Lucky Strikes. Feng held up a declining hand.

  “Speaking of my uncle, he wants to see you.”

  Tom lit himself a cigarette, using the pause to prepare a response. Feng’s uncle, Tu Yueh-sheng, lived in the French Concession, just south of the International Settlement. The last thing Tom wanted to do was make another trip on such a busy night. Still, it wasn’t wise to reject an invitation from the Grandmaster of the Green Gang.

  “My club just opened for business. Tell you what, how about you and your men go out to the bar and have a few drinks on me. Give me an hour or two just to make sure everything is running smoothly. Then we’ll go to Frenchtown and see Uncle Tu.”

  The offer was met with cold stares. Tom took a drag on his cigarette and considered his situation. Club Twilight only existed with the Green Gang’s tacit approval. A small cut of the club’s profits satiated Tu Yueh-sheng, along with a promise to never engage in opium, gambling, or prostitution. Tom knew enough not to encroach on the Green Gang’s prized businesses, or even enter into a partnership with them. The bottom of the Soochow Creek was full of men who couldn’t fulfill their promises to Grandmaster Tu.

  “Perhaps, you don’t understand, Tommy,” Feng said, his thin lips twisting into a sneer. “It wasn’t an offer but an order. When the Green Gang commands, you obey. Savvy?”

  Respect for one’s elders was commonplace of Chinese culture, but not for Feng. His condescending tone to someone twelve years his senior showed just how much contempt this gangster brat had for Tom. His given name of Lung-wei – Great Dragon – was supposed to showcase his intelligence and strength, since dragons were symbols of wisdom and power in China. But Feng Lung-wei was a dragon of the European variety – breathing fire, terrorizing peasants, and taking fair maidens hostage. To him, few were worthy of a dragon’s respect.

  Ignoring the insult, Tom flicked the ash from his cigarette and said, “Of course, of course. However, I just came from the International Settlement and would like to stick around for a little bit, just to make sure my guests are satisfied. Between nine and midnight are our busiest hours, you know. Have a few drinks, dance with some of my girls, and then we’ll—”

  Feng snapped a command with his fingers. The two other gangsters stood up, knocking their chairs over with a loud clatter. Smith & Wesson revolvers slid out of their voluminous sleeves and aimed straight at Tom. He’d seen many of those during the war, but never looking down the barrel of one.

  “You can either come with us now or we’ll kill you and every single person in your little club.” A cruel smile curled onto the young gangster’s face.

  Tom swallowed hard and stubbed out his cigarette.

  “Lead the way.”

  *****

  Feng Lung-wei’s Mercedes cruised down Avenue Joffre, the main thoroughfare of the French Concession. Whereas the International Settlement was run by the British – together with the Americans, Italians, and Japanese – France had carved out its own enclave just to the south. Although French in name, it was actually governed by the Green Gang. Police, officials, and just about anyone who mattered were on their take. While Frenchtown was its headquarters, the Green Gang’s tentacles spread far and wide all throughout Shanghai.

  Sitting in the back seat, Tom puffed away at a Lucky Strike, hoping to mask his concern. Had he done something to offend Tu Yueh-sheng? He’d paid his dues on time and never encroached onto the Green Gang’s turf. The gangster lord had even dubbed Tom his “American nephew,” which was endearing of him. But the triads – the secret societies of Old China and today’s crime syndicates – were notorious for their double dealings, shifting alliances, and betrayals.

  Feng Lung-wei sat beside him and chatted away, as if they were out for a night on the town.

  “Ever been to the Great World, Tommy?”

  Of course Tom had been to the Great World, Shanghai’s premier arcade and amusement center. This impudent brat was just toying with him now. He took a drag and nodded.

  “Great place, isn’t it, Tommy? That’s how you met your little twitch, right? Isn’t that what they call women in America?”

  “Twist,” Tom said, expelling a cloud of smoke.

  “Oh yes...Mei-chen sure is a great little twist. Isn’t she Tommy?”

  “She sure is.”

  Mercifully, the Mercedes slid to a halt and parked outside a storefront. Feng’s henchmen hopped out and held the door for Tom, still offering him some level of courtesy. Tom exited the vehicle, tossed his cigarette to the ground, and glanced around.

  A lively sea of people flowed to and fro on Avenue Joffre. French couples walked in and out of a dim sum restaurant while Chinese ladies in cheongsams and pea coats admired store mannequins outfitted with the latest Paris fashions. An Annamese policeman in French uniform and kepi directed traffic. Tom almost wanted to call for help but suppressed the urge. After all, the Green Gang and the Police were one and the same in Frenchtown.

  Instead, he followed Feng Lung-wei into a storefront labeled “Antiquités d'Orient,” followed by the two hulking gangsters. Inside, the walls were covered in auspicious red wallpaper and dim lighting was provided by low hanging paper lanterns. A moon-faced girl in a cheongsam stood behind a glass counter, filled with artifacts from China’s ancient past – Ming vases, ceramic foo dogs, and gold statues of the Buddha.

  “Not a bad racket we have here, Tommy,” Feng said with a proud smile. “All counterfeit but most tourists who come through here can’t tell the difference.”

  Tom peered into the glass case before turning to Feng. “Is the Green Gang branching out into other ventures?”

  “It’s just a front. Even in Frenchtown we have to be discrete. But that doesn’t mean we can’t make a little money off of it.”

  Feng nodded to the store girl, who trotted over to a portion of the red-papered wall and slid open a panel. A large doorframe opened, allowing entry into a hidden back area. A sweet smell wafted up into Tom’s nostrils, almost intoxicating him. Opium.

  He followed Feng and found himself inside a small room, completely dark except for a few burning lamps. Pallets filled out almost every inch of the cramped area. A few white men and women lay in stupefied bliss next to their opium pipes, but most were Chinese coolies, spending their meager earnings on this demonic drug. Many people – both native Shanghainese and foreign Shanghailanders – lost themselves in this city, swallowed up in a swirling cloud of opium smoke.

  Across the room was another door but Feng walked past it and instead, opened another secret panel. Tom and the gangsters followed him down a flight of stairs which led into a murky basement. The door slid shut behind them with a startling whoosh, like a guillotine slamming down. Crates and barrels blocked almost the entire area, but Feng pressed on, squeezing in between the walls of boxes.

  A bright electric light bulb illuminated part of the basement and labored breathing cut through the silence. A thick-set Chinese came into view, wearing the same changshan long shirt and flat cap as F
eng’s other two gorillas. The gangster loomed over an Oriental man handcuffed to a chair. The captive took in deep gasps of air, spluttering out bloody phlegm. His blue suit had been torn to rags, which still looked better than his face, now just a maze of cuts and bruises.

  “This is why we brought you here, Tommy,” Feng said with a taunting grin.

  Tom examined the prisoner but there was no recognition. “Who is he?”

  “Ever since coming to power, Chiang Kai-shek has tasked the Green Gang to be his eyes and ears in Shanghai,” Feng said. “We usually hunt underground Communists, but nowadays we’re also looking for Japanese spies.” He gestured to the battered captive.

  “Congratulations,” Tom said. “I’m sure the Generalissimo will give you a medal.”

  Feng Lung-wei and his thugs stared back with cold, reptilian eyes.

  “Wait until you hear what he says.” Feng slapped the prisoner hard and asked in English, “Mr. Ono, who was your main contact?”

  The man’s broken, bloody face lifted up and stared straight at Tom.

  “He was.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  The accusation tightened Tom’s throat and sent his mind racing. His eyes darted around the dimly lit basement before settling back to Ono’s blood-smeared face. Through his myriad of open wounds, a familiar figure began to emerge. Tom had seen this Japanese man before, so much so he’d reserved his own table. Ono could be seen dancing with the taxi girls, conversing with Whitfield and other diplomats, and passing his business card out to anyone who would take it.

  “Recognize him now, Tommy?” Feng asked, grinning.

  “Yes,” Tom admitted. “Goro Ono…he works for some import-export company based out of Nagasaki.”

  The gangster brat wagged a finger. “That was only his cover. He actually works for Japanese Naval Intelligence. What’s more, Ono says that he used your club as a rendezvous point for receiving top-secret messages.” Feng slapped the Japanese again. “Isn’t that right?”