“I was just playing a few games of fan-tan myself. People are in a gambling mood these days. Panic does that I guess,” Feng said, giving a toothy grin. “And as I was leaving, I said to myself, ‘Hey, isn’t that Tommy Lai? Why is he strolling around with his little twist instead of spy hunting?’ So I figured I’d investigate.”
Off to the side, cymbals clanged and erhus wailed out a tune as the Monkey King spun round and round, slicing the air with his magical staff. The crowd gave a burst of applause.
“I already found the spy,” Tom said, facing Feng. The gangster gave a coy look, followed by a mischievous smile.
“Have you now? Don’t keep me waiting, Tommy.”
A twinge of regret spasmed in Tom’s gut at the thought of turning Whitfield over to this lowlife. Still, Tom Lai was nobody’s fall guy.
“Charles Whitfield.”
Feng rubbed his chin in thought. “The name is familiar…”
“He works for the United States Consulate and fits the bill for your spy. One, he speaks English and two, he has access to information about American gunboats in China.”
The gangster brat shook his head. “Sorry Tommy, I don’t like that answer.”
Tom’s heart sank as the clanging cymbals grew to a crescendo. In the center of the crowd, the Monkey King hoisted himself atop his cane, balancing himself on one foot. Stunned gasps and cries rippled from the onlookers.
“What do you mean?”
Feng gave a dismissive shrug. “Even we have limits. An American diplomat might just be out of reach for the Green Gang.” He paused before giving a wolfish smile. “But you’re not.”
“But I’m not the spy,” Tom snapped, his voice mixing with the whine of zithers and erhus.
“I’m still not convinced of that. Regardless, if you can produce this Charles Whitfield, with a full confession, then maybe my uncle will believe you.”
“Are you suggesting I kidnap a diplomat?”
“I’m not suggesting anything, Tommy. But the Green Gang requires evidence. Right now, we have all the proof we need that you’re the spy. And that’s good enough for me.”
“Then I demand to see Grandmaster Tu and explain my case to him.”
Feng held up a hand. “Uncle already granted you an audience. You need not waste his time with more excuses.”
“But how will I prove that I’m not the spy if you don’t even—”
“That’s not my concern, Tommy. An American diplomat is too conspicuous to kill. However, nobody would bat an eye if a nightclub owner, a Chinese nightclub owner, disappears.”
Tom braced himself. “I’m an American too.”
“Not like Whitfield,” Feng said with a taunting smirk.
The band concluded and the Monkey King flipped off his staff, ending the performance with a bow. The crowd broke out with vociferous applause, Feng included. Tom spun on his heel and stormed back over to Mei-chen. The two henchmen ignored her now, prodding the cricket cages with childlike curiosity.
“Your boss wants to see you,” Tom said, jerking his thumb behind him. “Something about wanting to introduce you to the Monkey King.”
The two gorillas’ faces lit up as they lumbered back over to Feng. Mei-chen rushed to Tom, laying her gloved hands on his chest.
“What’s wrong?” she asked in English.
The last thing he wanted to do was worry her in front of the Green Gang. Fixing her with a reassuring smile, he said, “Nothing that lucky cricket can’t cure.”
Forking over the money, Tom grabbed the cricket and took Mei-chen by the arm. He needed some guidance and he knew where to start. As they waited near the elevator, Tom glanced over to the crowd, now dispersing. Flanked by his two mugs, Feng looked back and gave a quick, ominous gesture to his watch.
Tick tock.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Tom gazed up at the Great Buddha with a mixture of awe and longing. The statue was similar to the ones he’d prayed to in San Francisco’s Chinatown, albeit coated in gold. Even the Buddhas were ritzier in Shanghai. A sweet smell of incense wafted up, putting him at ease. The Great World’s Buddhist Temple was situated on the fifth floor, just a quick jaunt for anyone needing spiritual guidance. In addition to every vice imaginable, the amusement arcade offered a way for sinners to repent.
It had been years since Tom prayed at a temple, but today he needed all the help he could get. Pressing his palms together, he considered his options. Mei-chen’s safety was his top concern but he’d prefer to survive along with her. Out of ideas, Tom bowed his head and asked the gods for protection. For him, for Mei-chen, and for all of Shanghai. They had pulled through during the 1906 quake, during the war, and when he’d first moved to China. Hopefully, they wouldn’t abandon him now.
Tom turned to Mei-chen, her hands pressed together in prayer. The worry etched into her face told she was asking for a lot. She bent down and picked up the little cage holding the cricket. The bug was quiet, dozing in the tranquil atmosphere. Turning away from the statue, they walked out arm in arm, back into the land of mortals. Just outside of the Buddhist Temple were rows of peep show machines. Slides showed everything from the latest photos of the Manchurian front to snapshots of undressed women, both Chinese and Western.
A dance hall was on the other side, boasting the prettiest girls in Shanghai. Unlike the tea house on the second floor with its dainty sing-song girls, these taxi dancers were cheap and loose, willing to foxtrot along with the latest jazz music. Tom and Mei-chen paused to steal a quick glance into the hall. Sultry Chinese women in cheongsams danced with men of all nationalities as a jukebox blared “Nighttime in Old Shanghai.”
A wistful sigh from Mei-chen was enough prodding for them to move along, the cricket cage swaying in between them. After all, this was where they’d met two years ago. They walked in silence toward the stairs, taking them up to the Great World’s rooftop. A high guardrail encased them, save for one small section left open. Those unfortunates who gambled away their savings often used it for impromptu suicides. Nobody was killing themselves today though, giving Mei-chen and Tom some much needed seclusion.
Shanghai spread out below them, dominated by the Bund’s distinctive skyline to the east, the facsimile of Paris to the south in Frenchtown, and masses of gray warehouses and tenements to the north in Chapei.
“I love this city,” Tom said, leaning over the guard railing.
“You love the makeup Shanghai puts on,” Mei-chen said. “Have you seen how hideous she is underneath?”
“San Francisco has an ugly side too.”
“Not like Shanghai. No city is like Shanghai.”
“That’s why I love it” Tom sighed. “Paris of the East, whore of the Orient. She’s both.”
“Whatever she is, I’ll be glad to leave her.” A few moments passed by in silence before Mei-chen said, “I never thanked you for rescuing me.”
Tom turned to face her. “From what?”
“I’d still be working in that glorified brothel downstairs. A dollar bought three dances. Five dollars bought customers much more.”
“Is that why you agreed to come work at my club? I’m sure me being well-connected to the Kuomintang had something to do with it too.”
“Well, that and your handsome face.”
Tom leaned over and kissed her. They stood, locked in an embrace, alone atop all of Shanghai. A comforting silence engulfed them, washing out all of the horrors from the past twenty-four hours. He didn’t know how long they stood there until an obnoxious chirp interrupted them.
Mei-chen held the cricket cage up and smiled. “Maybe he’s jealous.”
“Next time it happens, he’s going to wind up under my shoe.”
“Tom, no,” she cried, slapping his arm. “It’s bad luck.”
They shared a laugh until a deep rumbling demanded their attention. They looked over the guardrail, down at the streets below. A procession lurched past the Great World, thicker and angrier than last night. All the usual anti-Japanese
banners and signs were there – ‘Boycott Jap Goods’, ‘Japan Get Out of Manchuria’, but there were also a few new ones now. ‘Retake the Northeast’ and ‘Liberate Taiwan’ stood out in particular.
“This city is doomed,” Mei-chen said.
“Don’t talk like that,” Tom snapped.
“It’s true. Shanghai is next. That’s why we have to get out of here.” Drawing nearer, Mei-chen clutched the cricket cage tightly. “I’m frightened Tom. Time is running out for this city…and for us.”
Well, she did have a point. Still, the best thing a man could do is put on a stoic face for his woman.
“There’s still time. Mayor Wu could still accept the Japanese demands. Hell, maybe the Mikado will order his boys to stand down.”
He pressed her head against his chest. The shouts of “Boycott all Japanese goods” and “Kill the Japanese Devils” thundered from below. Something told him that those protesters probably weren’t in the pay of Commander Fukuzaki. That was genuine Chinese patriotism at work. The kind he’d helped Chiang Kai-shek water and nourish for years. Now Tom Lai was reaping the fruit.
“Don’t worry. Captain Tung assured me that the 19th Route Army is ready to defend Shanghai. It won’t be a walk over like Manchuria.”
“That might be, Tom. But what happens if we’re all caught in the crossfire?”
He didn’t answer that; how could he? There was nothing Thomas Lai could do to stop a war, no matter how many Kuomintang officials he knew or how many palms he greased. All he could do was fight for what was his – Club Twilight, Mei-chen, and his own life. But perhaps Captain Tung could save him as well as Shanghai.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
After dropping Mei-chen and the cricket off at Club Twilight, Yan and Tom drove over to the North Railway Station, located strategically in the Chapei district. People thronged at the gates, held at bay by squads of armed soldiers. Since becoming the headquarters of Captain Tung’s company, the North Railway Station still functioned as a railway depot, but just barely. The wealthiest Shanghainese had taken refuge in Frenchtown or the International Settlement, but the middle-classes could only afford to flee to Nanking. The poor – those who had come to Shanghai to escape floods and famine – would have to take their chances in the streets of Chapei.
Weary families – dragging their entire life’s belongings in suitcases – made their way toward the gates. Soldiers inspected tickets and then motioned them through with bayoneted rifles. Yan parked the Bentley and Tom jumped out, snaking his way to the front of the crowd. At the gates, a youthful sentry blocked his advance by leveling his rifle straight at Tom’s chest.
“Your ticket, sir?”
“Tell Captain Tung Hsi-shan that Lai Huang-fu is here to see him.”
The soldier nodded to his even younger comrade, who rang a nearby field telephone. After a brief conversation, he gave a confirming nod.
“Go ahead, sir,” the soldier said, lowering his rifle. “He’s on the first floor, third door on the left.”
Tom nodded his thanks and walked through the gates, trying to shake off the angry stares from the crowd. The courtyard was full of soldiers in blue-gray uniforms, field caps, and tattered cloth shoes. They thrust their bayonets in formation, low-crawled through dirt, and shot at paper targets. Last minute practice before show time.
Inside the railway terminal, families clustered together like frightened mice. Others gathered near the schedule board, checking for any delays. The trains in China were notoriously late, worsened by this mass exodus. A pair of dark eyes stood out in the crowd, belonging to a sly-looking wretch in a long changshan shirt and fedora. Although he’d never seen this creature before, Tom could spot a member of the Green Gang a mile away. Feng Lung-wei’s promise that they’d be watching the docks and railways was no idle threat. Not that he ever doubted it.
Tom turned and moved past the crowds, trying not to lock eyes with anyone, until he found the third door on the left and knocked.
“Who’s there?” a voice barked from behind in Cantonese.
“It’s me, Tom…err, Lai Huang-fu,” he replied, also in Cantonese.
A few moments of silence followed before a resigned response. “Enter.”
Tom walked into an office occupied by Captain Tung and two junior officers, huddled around an enormous map of Shanghai. All wore field caps ornamented with the Kuomintang White Sun cockade, polished black jackboots, white gloves, and high-collared, blue-gray tunics that were starched so stiffly they looked ready to snap in half. As opposed to their motley-looking soldiers outside, Captain Tung and his lieutenants looked more in line to lead a parade than fight in the trenches.
“Ahhh, welcome Lai Huang-fu! Ready to enlist in the 19th Route Army?” Tung said with a grin. The two lieutenants shared a sardonic snicker.
“I’ll let you know when – or rather if – the war starts. But right now, I need to talk to you about something else.”
Captain Tung nodded his dismissal. “You both have your orders. General Tsai has tasked us with defending the North Railway Station no matter the cost.”
The lieutenants snapped salutes before tromping out. Tom fished out his cigarette case and lit two Lucky Strikes for them both.
“Let me guess, you want out of Shanghai too?” Tung said, taking a drag. “I might be able to get you on a train to Nanking tonight.”
Sneaking out of the city was tempting, but foolhardy. That creature lurking in the railway terminal would gun him down before he set foot on the platform. But if anyone could help, it was Captain Tung.
“I appreciate that Captain, but I need something else,” Tom said, blowing out a puff of smoke. He gestured Tung toward the door, then eased it open. Through the crack, the Green Gang hood was visible, nestled in between a cluster of anxious families. Tom closed the door and Captain Tung fixed him with a frown.
“Is this about a gambling debt, Lai Huang-fu?”
“No, nothing so humdrum,” Tom said, taking another drag. “The Green Gang thinks I’m a Japanese spy.”
Tung’s brown eyes bulged, then narrowed in thought. Finally, a deep laugh burst out of the officer.
“You? A Japanese spy? What a joke!”
“That’s what I said. Unfortunately, the Green Gang thinks I’m as good as guilty. Or rather, Feng Lung-wei thinks so. Big-Eared Tu is a little more neutral.”
“Feng Lung-wei? Tu Yueh-sheng’s nephew?”
“The very same. He’s a real turtle’s egg, huh?”
Tung snorted. “An understatement! He’s more devil than human. I had the misfortune of seeing his work back in 1927, when we purged the Communists from Shanghai.” A strange shell shock appeared in the Captain’s squared face. “Most of the Green Gang just shot the Reds they captured. But Feng Lung-wei would stuff firecrackers in their mouths, noses, ears, and then light them.”
“Sounds festive. Wait, Feng’s barely twenty now. He must have been only fifteen back in 1927.”
Tung shook his head. “The Green Gang trains their killers at a young age.”
Tom took another puff and pictured himself with a mouthful of firecrackers. What was it Feng had told him, back at the opium den?
‘It won’t be that quick, Tommy. I promise you.’
“So, you can see my predicament. I need someone to vouch for my loyalty to China.”
“It’s not that easy, Lai Huang-fu. As loathe as I am to admit it, the Green Gang rules Shanghai, not the Kuomintang.”
“I know that, but the Kuomintang rules China. In exchange for his help in killing all the Reds in Shanghai, Chiang Kai-shek appointed Tu Yueh-sheng as president of the Opium Suppression Bureau. The biggest dope pusher in all of China! They both need each other.”
After taking a puff on his Lucky, Captain Tung grunted. “True, there is a…relationship between Party officials and the Green Gang.”
“Relationship? Don’t be so coy Captain, they’re practically married!”
Tung frowned and took an angry puff of his cigarette. �
��What right do you have to judge? You come from a wealthy country, not ravaged by civil war. Not since the Manchus has China been united. Generalissimo Chiang and the Kuomintang have saved the nation from those tyrannical, self-serving warlords.”
Tom took a final drag and ground out the cigarette beneath his heel. “Captain, remember who you’re talking to? I’m no boy scout. Hell, I admire Gimo for everything he’s done, and that includes his alliance with the Green Gang. All I’m asking for the Kuomintang to pay me back a little for all my generous donations. I am a Party member, after all.”
“I’ll try, Tom, but it won’t be easy. The Green Gang is like Chiang’s pet tiger. It can perform tricks for him sometimes, but it’s still a wild beast.”
Tom grimaced. “Can you ask that man from the Finance Ministry…oh hell, what was his name?”
“Chow Chun-wah.”
“Yes, Chow. Just ask him to make a phone call to Big-Eared Tu and tell him how valuable my regular donations are to the Nationalist Government.”
“Perhaps. I must admit, Mr. Chow was rather offended by your most recent donation.”
“Offended?”
“Yes, he was expecting more.”
Anger surged through Tom, tensing his throat and clenching his fists. After a deep breath, he managed to snarl out in English, “Greedy son of a bitch!” before switching over to Cantonese. “He was expecting more so he could line his pockets. I know these Kuomintang officials take at least ten percent.”
Captain Tung said nothing and finished his cigarette.
“Look, I’m desperate here. The Green Gang is looking for a patsy and I’m it. As much money as I give to Gimo, the least he could do is save my life.”
Captain Tung nodded. “Alright, Lai Huang-fu. I’ll talk to Mr. Chow. That’s the best I can do.”
The tension throughout Tom’s body began to unknot. Perhaps it was the uniform or his chiseled, heroic face, but there was something about Captain Tung that could make anyone feel protected.
Shanghai Twilight Page 9
