Shanghai Twilight

by Matthew Legare

  Catching sight of Tom, Mei-chen flashed a smile. He reciprocated but waved his hand, indicating that the soldier’s dance was on the house. The boy deserved a little pleasure before his journey into hell. Sauntering deeper into the club, Tom stopped by the bar, ordered a J&B Scotch on the rocks, and made his way over to Whitfield’s table. Nursing a whiskey of his own, the US Consulate man rose and greeted Tom with a firm handshake.

  Tom smiled, but the nagging thought of Charles Whitfield colluding with Japan chilled his blood. But such an idea was ridiculous. The Whitfields had not only opened schools and hospitals throughout China, they were also one of the most vociferous families demanding a repeal to that insidious Chinese Exclusion Law. Still, alliances could always shift.

  “I say old boy,” Whitfield said as they sat down. “That devilish mandarin Big-Eared Tu must have given you quite a fright! The color’s drained from your face. You almost look like a white man!”

  Tom forced a laugh and realized he hadn’t had a cigarette since leaving the French Concession. Pulling out a Lucky Strike from his case, he lit up and let the soothing tobacco course through his lungs.

  “In all seriousness, I was mighty worried for you, and so was the kid,” Whitfield said, gesturing to Mei-chen out on the dance floor. “What was all that rumpus about?”

  Tom swirled the ice in his glass. If his friend was indeed a spy, the last thing Tom wanted to give the impression that he was on to him. Best to play dumb.

  “It wasn’t anything really,” Tom said, taking a sip of his Scotch. The fear and anger from earlier began to dissipate as the alcohol slid down his throat. “The Green Gang is upping my monthly protection payments. I guess the depression has finally hit China.”

  An air of skepticism swept over Whitfield, but it soon passed.

  “This damnable depression isn’t going anywhere soon. Have I told you about my uncle?”

  “The banker in Boston?”

  “Yes, that’s the one. There was a run on his bank last month. Just about cleaned him out.” Whitfield shook his head. “Feels like the whole world is going crazy, Tom.”

  A desperate uncle might be enough reason to spy, but Tom didn’t want to jump to conclusions just now. Instead, he took a drag on his cigarette and said, “I need to ask a favor, Chuck.”

  Whitfield leaned in. “Anything, old boy.”

  Although an outright accusation might backfire, suitable bait might encourage Whitfield to reveal himself, if he was indeed the spy.

  “The Green Gang is concerned with a certain Nipponese gentleman.” Tom sipped his J&B before saying, “Jiro Fukuzaki. Ever hear of him?”

  Whitfield’s blue eyes alighted with recognition. “Yeah, he’s an Imperial Navy officer. I’ve had a few drinks with him at a pub he owns in Little Tokyo.”

  “Does this pub have a name?” Tom asked in between cigarette drags.

  “The Golden Unicorn…say old boy, what are you planning?”

  Tom gave a placating smile. “Nothing. Tu Yueh-sheng and I thought you would know who he is. After all, you know a lot of the Mikado’s men, don’t you?”

  “Well, it’s my business to know. After all, along with the British, the Italians, and us, the Japanese run the International Settlement.” Whitfield paused, before giving a concerned look through the veil of cigarette smoke. “Say, what are you trying to imply?”

  “Nothing,” Tom said, raising a placating hand. “I just promised Big-Eared Tu that I’d ask you what you know about Fukuzaki.”

  Whitfield shook his head. “Dreadful that you have to deal with scum like that. His lot oppress China even worse than the old Manchus ever did, enslaving his own people to opium and brothels.”

  Tom took another sip. Although he wasn’t a Puritan, Charles Whitfield looked down on the Green Gang with the bitter disdain that only a Christian gentleman from New England could. It was a wonder how he could befriend someone in such ill repute as Thomas Lai. However, tonight’s little horror show left Tom more cynical than usual. Perhaps their friendship had always been an illusion created by a manipulative spy.

  “Tu Yueh-sheng is a necessary evil. After all, a society can’t go from feudalism and warlordism to a modern republic without some growing pains. Hell, Al Capone ran Chicago up until a few months ago.”

  Whitfield didn’t respond and sipped his drink. Tom glanced back over at the dance floor, still crowded with couples. But Mei-chen had vanished and Tom suspected where she’d run off to. He drained his Scotch and stubbed out the cigarette.

  “I think I’m going to turn in for the night. Rubbing elbows with gangsters always leaves me bushed.”

  Whitfield nodded before adding, “I don’t know what you’re planning Tom but I’d stay away from Little Tokyo. There has been a rapid buildup of Jap Marines there. You don’t want to be caught in the crossfire when the shooting starts.”

  Again, sympathy shone in those blue eyes. Tom wanted to believe it was genuine but a dark voice told him to remain vigilant. They shook hands and Tom walked over to Yan Ping, surveying the crowd like a watchful hawk.

  “Close up shop for me, Yan,” he said in Shanghainese.

  “Of course, boss.”

  Tom looked at the man’s thick, mustached face. Yan Ping wasn’t the type to ever learn Cantonese, let alone English, so he couldn’t have written those documents. This was a simple and loyal man. Tom needed all the help he could get if he was going to venture into the beast’s lair of Little Tokyo. That meant his regular chauffeur wouldn’t be enough.

  “Yan, I’ll need your assistance tomorrow morning. Bring my Bentley around at 9 o’clock.”

  “Of course, boss,” he said, his gaze never wavering. Tom nodded and walked off. Enough intrigue for tonight. Mei-chen, his Beautiful Pearl, was waiting.

  CHAPTER NINE

  As the Twilight Band struck up “China Boy,” Tom made his way upstairs. He had carved out a private apartment from the derelict warehouse space on the second story. Feng Lung-wei was right. There was enough unused space for a gambling hall, a private cinema, and even an opium den. But thinking about those empty, glazed eyes from earlier sent a chill down Tom’s spine. Pushing the image out of his mind, he opened the apartment door and tried to focus on his Beautiful Pearl.

  Ho Mei-chen was sitting on their bed, as vivacious as ever in her red cheongsam and black gauntlets. She looked like a living embodiment of those Shanghai poster girls who advertised everything from cigarettes to soap to loquat syrup. Her sheer beauty quickened his pulse and knotted his stomach, no matter how many times he laid eyes upon this gorgeous creature. Despite the last few hellish hours, seeing his Beautiful Pearl always banished his troubles far, far away.

  “Welcome back darling,” she cooed in English, standing up. “I saved the last dance for you.”

  Mei-chen walked over to a nearby phonograph and put on a record. The jazzy strains of “Sing-Song Girl of Old Shanghai” poured out and filled the apartment. Tom took her gloved hand and they began swaying back and forth on their own private dance floor. Her head lay on his shoulder but Mei-chen’s feet were animated, leading them both around the apartment. All too soon, the song ended and an irritating clicking noise filled the air. Mei-chen walked over to the phonograph and lifted the needle, bending down in an alluring pose. Tom shifted his eyes and occupied himself with the rest of the apartment.

  This was home, despite the sparse furnishings. A phonograph, small nightstand, and a vanity table for Mei-chen, cluttered with cosmetics and makeup. A desk held Tom’s important paperwork and a money toad statuette which brought good fortune and wealth to Club Twilight. A few frames decorated the wall – his Citation Star along with photographs of Tom and his family in Chinatown, Tom and Mei-chen along the Bund, and most prized of all, Tom standing beside Generalissimo Chiang Kai-shek himself.

  He refocused his attention to Mei-chen and said, “When we’re married, you won’t have to taxi dance anymore.”

  “But I like dancing,” she said with a pout. “Beside
s, I bring in a good haul.”

  “Yes, and thanks to you we’re close to our goal. But when you’re my wife, the only dancing you’ll have to do is for fun,” Tom said as he lit a Lucky Strike.

  That seemed to please her. She gave a happy smile and sat back on the bed, lighting a cigarette of her own. “What did that vicious little brat Feng want?”

  Tom blew out a long curl of smoke as the night’s horrors flooded back. A woman, let alone his fiancée, shouldn’t be burdened with such troubles. Although he yearned for her support and comfort, it was his duty as a man to solve this problem and keep her in blissful ignorance. For now, at least.

  “Tu Yueh-sheng is raising his protection fees,” Tom offered.

  Mei-chen frowned and took a drag. Her black gloves held the white cigarette like an ivory cane in a sea of tar.

  “Greedy bastard,” she hissed. “After all you’ve paid him already. He wants to run you out of business, darling.”

  “He isn’t so bad,” Tom said with some truth. After all, it was Tu’s mercy that granted him this brief reprieve.

  Mei-chen almost spat out the smoke. “Why defend that gangster? The Green Gang has turned Shanghai into the Whore of the Orient! Kidnappings, murder, prostitution, and opium…that’s Tu Yueh-sheng’s racket. I’ll be glad when we get to America and leave his kind on the other side of the Pacific.”

  Tom shrugged and took another drag. He didn’t want to argue but such naiveté couldn’t go unchallenged.

  “America has its share of problems too, dear. Perhaps you haven’t heard of Al Capone or the Tong Wars? Not to mention a depression that’s left twenty percent of the population out of work. I don’t think they’ll be happy to see another Chinaman and his blushing bride either. They passed a law to keep us out, you know.”

  “The Exclusion Act,” Mei-chen said, puffing away. “I’m aware of such prejudices against our kind. But there is a reason why our people, despite the obstacles, still try and enter Meikuo.”

  Meikuo was what the Chinese called America; the Beautiful Country, full of hope and opportunity.

  “Look, America is a fine country but so is China. We can’t forget our heritage.”

  “I’ll gladly forget this wretched land,” she snapped, stubbing the cigarette out. Her venom was surprising.

  “You might, but I intend to still do business here even after we settle in Frisco. Shanghai has been mighty good to me and I am going to pay her, and Gimo, back in spades.”

  With a little sigh, Mei-chen fell back onto the bed. “When will we go to America, darling?”

  “Soon, I just have to make a little more money to set us up big in Frisco.”

  “Why not tomorrow? They say the war will break out anytime now.”

  Tom scoffed and took a final drag before crushing the smoke out. “Do you want to live in a Victorian mansion on Nob Hill or a roach-infested tenement in Chinatown?”

  A little whine was her initial response, but she insisted, “It doesn’t matter. So long as we can start a new life together, darling.”

  Such loyalty was charming but Tom knew he had to prepare himself. If millions of white men were out of work in America, then where would he be? Chinatown was a self-sufficient economy, but he’d been away for so long that perhaps he’d be an unwelcome stranger there. He doubted he could even get a job folding clothes in his father’s laundry shop now. After all, he was the ungrateful son who flouted his familial duties by joining up to fight in France. Then – adding insult to injury – he ran off to Shanghai instead of getting married and making grandchildren.

  Unmarried at thirty-two was a sin in itself, but maybe his family would be satisfied when he showed them Mei-chen. His older brother would be jealous, naturally, but hopefully his parents would be pleased. After all, Ho Mei-chen was the youngest daughter of a wealthy landlord from the Fukien province. That is, until warlords killed her parents and sister, causing her to flee to Shanghai.

  She found work as a taxi dancer in the Great World, that multi-story amusement center that boasted everything from magicians and sing-song girls to Peking Opera and vaudeville acts. After a few charming words, he’d convinced her to come work for him at the newly opened Club Twilight, just across the Soochow Creek.

  No need to tell his family that last part. All they needed to know was that Mei-chen would make a suitable tai tai and one worthy of bearing many sons. In Chinese culture, one never married for love. Honor, family status, and politics, but never love. He and Mei-chen would be an exception.

  “Let’s go see a picture tomorrow,” she suggested. “Perhaps Hell’s Angels? Or maybe Frankenstein again?”

  Tom chuckled and sat on the bed beside her. Only then did he notice the latest issue of Photoplay on the nightstand. Greta Garbo cast a seductive sideways glance at the reader while Clark Gable leaned in to kiss her cheek.

  “My little actress. Do you want to be a Hollywood star?”

  She posed, placing her gloved fingers on her chin. “Aren’t I pretty enough?”

  “Pretty, yes…but your skin is the wrong color. The best role you could land would be the bride of Fu Manchu.”

  Mei-chen opened her mouth in mock surprise. “Tell that to Anna May Wong!”

  “Didn’t she play the daughter of Fu Manchu?” That seemed to shut her up. “Besides, Hollywood isn’t in San Francisco.”

  “Well then, maybe we can see a Chinese picture then. I heard A Spray of Plum Blossoms is good. ‘Lily Yuen’s finest performance’ the magazines all say.”

  “Unfortunately, I have business tomorrow…”

  “Fine then, maybe I’ll just go shopping.” Mei-chen tugged off her leather gloves and tossed them onto the copy of Photoplay. “Darling, tell me about your childhood and San Francisco…”

  “Again?”

  Mei-chen nodded and tucked her head underneath his chin. “I want to hear it a hundred times over. We’re going to be living there after all.”

  Tom stroked her black hair. “Well, one of my earliest memories is the 1906 earthquake. Somehow, my family made it out but the rest of Chinatown wasn’t so lucky. When San Francisco was rebuilt, my old man scraped together enough dough to open his own laundry shop.”

  “But you didn’t like laundry, did you?” Mei-chen said, closing her eyes.

  “No, I didn’t. My big brother was set to inherit the business, so I busied myself with my uncle’s affairs.”

  “Yes, the Tong man, right?”

  “The Suey Sing Tong to be correct. He ran fan-tans and mahjong joints in Chinatown. As a ten-year-old, I helped empty spittoons and take out trash. Eventually, he let me take bets and pay out winners. It was more useful training than ironing socks and shirts.”

  “Didn’t your father mind?”

  Tom laughed, picturing the old man’s disapproving scowl. Not only had the Tong taught him to neglect his duties to the Lai family, but they’d filled his head with such concepts of patriotism and a strong China. As far as Papa Lai was concerned, a country – whether it was America or China – was only as good as the money you could make in it.

  “Of course he did, but he wouldn’t dare cross the Tong. They’d practically adopted me and taught me the history of China, from the first emperor to the Ching Dynasty. I still remember all the old timers getting their queues chopped off when the Manchus were overthrown.”

  “A happy day in my family too. My father ordered all of his farmers to unbind their daughters’ feet. My father was a progressive man, very supportive of the Republic. He never subjected me to such barbaric customs.” Mei-chen slipped out of her high heels and showed off a pair of slender feet.

  “My old man would have hated him. I still remember those little stubs my mother walked around on,” Tom said, shaking his head. “Anyway, shortly after my eighteenth birthday, America entered the World War.”

  “Such a terrible tragedy,” Mei-chen said with a sigh.

  An understatement. Although Tom Lai joined the United States Army with eager enthusiasm, his
countrymen relegated him to being the company’s laundry boy. He spent almost the entire war washing uniforms and ignoring jeers of “Heathen Chinee” and “Private Chink.” That all changed in late 1918, during the final push against the Germans. Manpower was low and Tom was sent to the front lines as a quick replacement. It was there – in the Argonne Forest – that Tom felt comfortable telling Mei-chen what happened next.

  “It was a rainy November morning and our platoon leader ordered us to take out a German machine gun nest. We charged just before sunrise. The lieutenant was killed instantly, as were ten more of my comrades. The next few hours were spent taking cover in no man’s land until me and another soldier got close enough to take out the Heinie nest with a few grenades.” Tom cleared his throat and added, “The war ended a week later.”

  “So heroic…”

  Tom shrugged and said, “General Pershing thought so too. He even pinned a medal on me.” He gestured to the Citation Star on the wall. “Nothing too flashy, since they don’t give the Medal of Honor to Chinamen.”

  “Well, I think you deserve it.”

  “Thanks. But when I went home, my father was so ashamed. Said I ran off to ‘fight a white man’s war.’” He sighed. “But it taught me there were more important things than making money.”

  “Like what?”

  “Don’t get me wrong, money is important but there are things worth fighting for. I wanted the land of my ancestors to become a strong and modern nation just like America. So when I heard about this dashing generalissimo named Chiang Kai-shek defeating the warlords one by one, I wanted to help in any way I could. So, I played the stock market for a while, made a tidy sum, and gave hefty donations to the Kuomintang.”

  “I’m sure Gimo was grateful.”

  “He was indeed. Invited me to China to meet with him back in ‘27,” Tom said, looking at the framed photograph on the wall. Tom, in his finest three-piece suit, standing next to the Generalissimo, wearing a simple military tunic and Sam Browne belt. Pride welled up inside him but he tried to hide it.