Shanghai Twilight

by Matthew Legare

  “A fortune teller warned my mom about ‘impending disaster’ so I got my money out just before the stock market crash in ‘29. In November, I hopped on a steamer bound for Shanghai to start a new life.”

  “Where you met me. Why Shanghai?”

  Tom shrugged. “I’d visited here when I met Gimo and loved it. It made San Francisco look like a city of milksops.”

  “Milksops? You Americans talk so strangely,” Mei-chen said, lifting her head up. Her half-closed eyes looked even more seductive than normal and she leaned in for a kiss. They locked lips, releasing a surge of pleasure inside him. Tom pulled her back onto the bed where they embraced further.

  For a brief moment, the night replayed itself. Chow and Captain Tung asking for loans. Feng’s bloody execution of Ono. The Grandmaster of Shanghai giving him forty-eight hours to live. They entered his mind for only a moment and then disappeared like fleeting nightmares. Tomorrow, he would go into Little Tokyo, find this Commander Fukuzaki, and determine if Whitfield truly was the spy. But for now, all that mattered was him and his Beautiful Pearl.

  CHAPTER TEN

  The next morning, Tom awoke and crawled out of bed, leaving Mei-chen still sleeping. He glanced at his Rolex – 9AM. Yan Ping would be pulling up with the Bentley any minute now, but Tom needed to look presentable if he was venturing into Little Tokyo. He shaved and changed into a nondescript dark blue serge suit and fedora. Most importantly, he fastened the shoulder holster under the jacket and pulled out a Browning automatic from his desk. Since coming under the protection of the Green Gang, he rarely used it, but now the gun looked like a long-lost friend.

  He fastened the pistol into his shoulder holster, tucked two extra clips into his waistband, and slid into an overcoat. He parted the blind and gazed out at Shanghai, a sprawling giant in the misty dawn. In the distance, towers of industry and finance were waking up from the night’s slumber. On the streets below, laborers and workers of all stripes shuffled through Chapei to man the district’s factories, warehouses, and cotton mills.

  For the past two years, Tom had carved out a private kingdom within Shanghai but now, this city was looking more like his tomb. He shook his head, trying to rid himself of such pessimism. Thomas Lai had survived the 1906 earthquake, the Tong Wars, and the Battle of the Argonne Forest. He’d survive this. But time was running out.

  Peering out the window, Tom saw the Bentley – with Yan Ping at the wheel – coast down the street and park in front of Club Twilight. It was time to go.

  He turned around and found Mei-chen stirring awake. After a few blinks and a deep yawn, she asked, “Where are you going, darling?”

  “Off to run a few errands,” Tom said, surprised the lie came so effortlessly. There was no need to worry her just yet. “Go see a picture today. Do some shopping. I won’t be back until we open tonight.”

  Mei-chen looked disappointed but smiled anyway. “Alright darling...just be careful.”

  “I will,” Tom said, starting for the door, but soon hesitated. He turned around, bent over, and kissed her for luck. Her breath was hot and sticky, but feeling her lips against his filled him with visceral pleasure.

  “Come back soon, darling,” she said, sinking back onto the bed.

  “I will,” Tom said, opening the door. He cast a final look back at her. “I promise.”

  *****

  The Bentley inched down Soochow Road, halted by an unusual amount of traffic. A sea of automobiles and rickshaws clogged the roads this morning while the sidewalks were thick with pedestrians, wandering in between the cars. Half were probably the usual commuters but the rest, Tom guessed, were refugees who hoped to find safety inside the International Settlement.

  A mixture of weariness, horror, and rage was painted on each of their sallow faces. Shanghai was already overcrowded with poor souls fleeing Communism, bandits, and floods. The entire city was fast becoming an enormous cauldron, ready to boil.

  Red-turbaned Sikh policemen directed traffic and manned checkpoints, sending all but a few refugees with the right credentials away. In the coming war, the International Settlement offered the best odds of survival. Not that he planned on abandoning Chapei. After all, a man had to protect his house against burglars.

  “Damn these refugees,” Yan Ping snorted in the driver’s seat, blaring the horn at a few pedestrians, walking in and out of the road. “As if Shanghai wasn’t crowded enough.”

  Tom sighed and looked out the window. Settled in the Soochow Creek, the gunboat Akata lay anchored near the Japanese Consulate. Its thick guns jutted out of the sides, ready to lay waste to Shanghai. The US Consulate stood next door, the Stars and Stripes fluttering alongside the Rising Sun. Was Charles Whitfield in there, busy writing secrets for the Mikado?

  Yan honked again and few pedestrians parted, allowing the Bentley to pass. They pulled off of Soochow Road and went east, deeper into the Hongkew district. Home to over twenty thousand Japanese, the area had become known as Little Tokyo, full of geisha houses, sukiyaki restaurants, sumo halls, and Shinto shrines. But as the motor cruised up Woochang Road, shuttered businesses lined the street. A few shops still remained but Little Tokyo was beginning to resemble a ghost town. The anti-Japanese boycott was even more effective than Tom had thought.

  The Golden Unicorn looked open for business and Yan parked across the street. They exited and Tom surveyed the surroundings. Only a few pedestrians were out today, all of which fixed Tom and Yan with quick, suspicious glares. Tom felt like a hornet that entered the wrong hive. Glancing around for a nearby policeman, his heart sank when two Imperial Japanese Marines turned the corner.

  With bayoneted rifles slung over their shoulders, the Marines strutted by like they had already conquered the city. However, in their blue jackets, sailor caps, and white gaiters, they looked more like the kid from the Cracker Jack box than the elite of the Japanese Navy. Still, their presence filled Tom with a gnawing dread. Well, this was why he’d brought Yan Ping along…and the automatic, snug in its holster.

  Tom took a deep breath of the chilly morning air and entered the Golden Unicorn. Most bars in Little Tokyo were Japanese style izakayas with tatami mats and red lanterns hanging out front. However, the Golden Unicorn’s interior was more of a London pub complete with a long bar counter, stools, and wooden paneling. No doubt the previous owners were British before the Japanese had made their own enclave in Hongkew.

  Adjusting his eyes to the dim lighting, Tom looked around for any sign of Commander Jiro Fukuzaki, but there was nobody except the bartender.

  “Excuse me, do you speak Shanghainese?” Tom asked.

  The bartender, a middle-aged Japanese, responded with a blank stare.

  “English?” Still nothing. Best to try the straightforward approach. Summoning all of his paltry Japanese, Tom asked, “Fukuzaki Chusa wa kokodesu ka?”

  The bartender’s eyes widened and he began speaking in rapid Japanese. Most was it was indecipherable, but he caught the last part – “Yoshida-san!”

  The door to the backroom opened and out stepped a lanky man in a trench coat, sporting a toothbrush mustache.

  “Yoshida, I presume?” Tom asked.

  The man nodded, then said in Shanghainese, “Chinese and dogs are not allowed in this bar. What do you want?”

  The man’s Shanghainese was accented, but otherwise flawless. Tom glanced over to Yan, looming behind his boss like a dutiful bodyguard.

  “I’m looking to speak with Commander Fukuzaki,” Tom said. “Do you know where he is?”

  “He doesn’t want to speak to a chankoro,” Yoshida said, using the Japanese equivalent for chink. He pointed to the front door. “Now leave.”

  Tom looked back to the bartender for any assistance, but he kept his eyes planted on the floor.

  “Wait a moment! I know you,” Yoshida said. “You’re a member of the Kuomintang, aren’t you?”

  Tom swallowed. Normally, such links were a surefire protection but here in Little Tokyo, connection to the Nat
ionalist Party could be a death sentence. Yoshida barked something in Japanese, and three men burst out from the backroom. Their cruel, sneering faces were unmistakable – the three Chinese thugs who tried to attack that Japanese couple last night.

  Like before, each of them brandished switchblades, ready for a rematch. All too late did Tom realize that Yoshida was a ronin. Named after the masterless samurai of old, these latter day ronin were civilians in pay of Japanese Intelligence, either to spy or stir up chaos. From the look in their glazed eyes and vacant expressions on their brutish faces, Yoshida’s three henchmen were most likely mere coolies looking for their next opium fix.

  “Why don’t we bring you to Commander Fukuzaki,” Yoshida said, flicking open his own switchblade, “one piece at a time?”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Tom backed up toward the front door but was soon outflanked by the three Chinese coolies. There was no escape this time. Before he could think, one of the thugs lunged forward. The knife seemed to reach out with cold metallic hands, but suddenly stopped. Yan Ping intercepted the brute with a devastating right cross, sending him crumpling onto the floor like a sack of dirty laundry.

  Blades drawn, Yoshida and another coolie focused their attention on Yan, forming a human wall between them. The third hoodlum kept his knife trained on Tom, blocking his escape. Luckily though, nothing obstructed Yan’s access to the front door.

  “Go get help,” Tom called out. “Quick!”

  Yan flashed a reluctant look, a loyal guard dog to the end.

  “Now!” Tom added for emphasis. The order had its effect, spinning Yan around and sending him out the door. Yoshida and his coolies didn’t bother pursuing but instead, kept their focus on Tom. He’d have to shoot his way out. His hand reached for the Browning automatic but stopped when another one of the thugs slashed at him.

  Tom sidestepped out of the blade’s path and grabbed a nearby bar stool. As the coolie struggled to reorient himself, Tom lifted the stool and brought it down like a mallet. A loud crack filled the pub as the thug collapsed onto the floor. The stool broke apart in Tom’s hands like melting snow. Two down, two to go.

  Yoshida stood off to the side, letting the last coolie henchman lead the attack. The brute charged forward, whipping the knife back and forth, releasing a whoosh in the air. Tom backed up, avoiding the blade’s lethal bite, but soon slammed against the back wall. Speed was what was needed now. Tom’s hand dove into his coat and whipped out the Browning automatic.

  With the muzzle leveled dead center at his chest, the coolie froze like a statue. Tom swallowed hard, the knife inches away from his throat. After a few tense moments, the thug backed off and retreated toward his master. Keeping the pistol trained on them both, Tom’s eyes darted about, assessing the situation.

  Yoshida and his Chinese henchman burned with impotent anger and tossed their now-useless weapons aside. The two other coolies lay unconscious on the floor, while the bartender cowered in the corner. Part of Tom wanted to apologize to the poor bastard for all the damage he’d done but he didn’t dare take his eyes off of Yoshida. Only when the backroom door creaked open did Tom glance to the side.

  A middle-aged man entered, attired in a dark blue uniform and peaked cap, stamped with an anchor insignia and gold embroidery. Rank tabs on his collar with a silver cherry blossom design proclaimed he was an officer in the Imperial Japanese Navy. Even more imposing was the officer’s face, stern and commanding. Thick eyebrows hung over fierce brown eyes that were settled in a sea of taut skin.

  “Fukuzaki Chusa desu ka?” Tom asked, still keeping the gun on Yoshida and his cohort.

  “Hai,” Commander Fukuzaki said with a nod. His narrowed eyes reviewed Tom up and down, back and forth. Switching over to Shanghainese, he said, “May I help you Mr…?”

  “Lai. I need to speak with you.”

  Fukuzaki pursed his lips and examined the two unconscious bodies on the floor. He gestured to the Browning. “Perhaps you can put that away?”

  “I tried asking politely before but Mr. Yoshida and his friends weren’t very hospitable.”

  “I see…” Anger swept over Commander Fukuzaki’s tight face as he strode over to Yoshida. Raising his white-gloved hand, the Navy officer slapped his subordinate across the cheek. But it was the torrent of verbal abuse that seemed to really wound Yoshida. Commander Fukuzaki unleashed a torrent of angry Japanese for almost a minute until the ronin lowered himself in supplication. After apologizing to his superior, Yoshida trotted over to Tom and offered another apologetic bow.

  “Gomen nasai…” the ronin said, unable to hide the anger in his voice.

  “Much obliged,” Tom said, holstering the gun.

  Commander Fukuzaki walked over and bowed himself, although nowhere near as low as Yoshida.

  “My sincerest apologies, Mr. Lai,” the Commander said in flawless Shanghainese.

  “It’s not the first time I had trouble with this riff-raff,” Tom said, pointing to the coolie henchman on the other side of the pub. “Last time we met, they were attending an anti-Japanese protest.”

  Fukuzaki glanced over to the Chinese tough – who hung his head in shame – then returned his attention to Tom. “Is that so?”

  “I stopped them from killing a Japanese couple. Imagine my surprise to find them working for the head of Japanese Naval Intelligence in Shanghai.”

  Fukuzaki made an irritated hissing noise through his teeth but said nothing.

  “Hell, just last week five Japanese monks were roughed up by thugs like them,” Tom jerked a thumb to the two unconscious coolies, sprawled out on the floor. “Maybe they were in your pay as well?”

  Commander Fukuzaki drew himself up. “I do not have time to respond to such slander.”

  Tom waved his hand. “That’s fine because I’m not here to discuss that.”

  “Then what are you here for?”

  “Ono-san.”

  Commander Fukuzaki’s taut face remained expressionless. “Who is that?”

  “Your spy.”

  Yoshida leaned closer and began conversing with the Commander in rapid Japanese. Fukuzaki said nothing but gave an occasional, understanding nod.

  “Ah yes, Mr. Lai…now I remember your name. You’re the gentleman who runs Club Twilight. I understand that you have connections with the Green Gang?”

  Tom considered how best to proceed. A lowly businessman didn’t carry much weight but an associate of Shanghai’s criminal syndicate lent him suitable authority. But if he revealed Ono’s gory death, his bargaining power might vanish.

  “Yes,” Tom said, squaring his shoulders. “I bring a message from Tu Yueh-sheng.”

  “Is that so?”

  “He says Ono will be executed tonight if you do not reveal the name of the spy in my establishment.”

  Commander Fukuzaki and Yoshida traded dark looks with each other before resuming their conversation in Japanese. After a few exchanges, Fukuzaki gestured Tom to follow him into the back room.

  “Please Mr. Lai, let’s talk about this like gentlemen.”

  Tom smiled. “I thought you’d never ask.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Aside from a few kegs and liquor crates, the back room was more of a small office, complete with a desk and file cabinet. Along with a portrait of the Mikado, a framed painting of a ferocious naval battle hung on the wall. Amid the smoke and carnage, a bright Union Flag fluttered on the ships’ masts.

  “The Battle of Trafalgar?” Tom asked, gesturing to the painting.

  A smile broadened Fukuzaki’s tight face as he sat behind the desk. Tom took a seat across from him.

  “Very good, Mr. Lai. Are you familiar with British military history?”

  Tom shrugged. “Just the highlights. Wellington defeating Napoleon at Waterloo, their victory in the Opium War...and Cornwallis surrendering to Washington at Yorktown.”

  “Oh yes, you are American, aren’t you Mr. Lai?” Fukuzaki said, switching over to English. His command of the language was
flawless, without any difficulty pronouncing l’s and r’s that many Japanese experienced.

  Tom nodded, affirming his heritage.

  “Forgive me, I’m something of an Anglophile. Japan and Britain are kindred spirits, you know. Two great island empires with powerful navies. I served as an Assistant Naval Attaché in London and fell in love with the city. When this pub was going out of business, I stepped in and purchased it.”

  “I like the Brits too but they haven’t exactly been good Samaritans in Asia. After all, they started a war to protect the opium trade here.”

  Commander Fukuzaki shook his head. “Such a dishonorable act was not befitting their glorious empire. However, that conflict showed Japan that she needed a powerful Army and Navy to become strong. China did not modernize and look at what she became.”

  Tom couldn’t argue with that. Up until just a few years ago, China had suffered defeat after defeat from foreign powers, along with floods, famines, and endless civil wars. The entire nation was like an enormous drug addict that had finally kicked its habit.

  “From what I understand, the Japanese Army is the one winning all of the victories up in Manchuria.”

  Fukuzaki’s taut face itched with irritation. “We will show the world how well the Imperial Navy can fight.”

  Tom’s clenched his hands into fists. “And when will that be?”

  “That all depends on Mayor Wu. Our demands are reasonable,” the Commander said, holding up three fingers. “One, an apology for the murder of our Buddhist monk. Two, compensation for the other victims of the attack. And three, a suspension of the anti-Japanese boycott.”

  “Reasonable my foot!”