Shanghai Twilight

by Matthew Legare

  “Thank you, dai go,” he said, using the Cantonese word for elder brother. The term wasn’t used blood relatives, but for any kind-hearted older man. Tung Hsi-shan was only a year older than Tom, but now, he seemed more like a father figure.

  They shook hands and Tom walked out the door, back to the main terminal. A shrill whistle sliced through the air. Through a pair of open windows, a lumbering train came into view and lurched to a stop at the main outdoor platform.

  Mounted loudspeakers squawked out, “Now boarding for the 4:15 to Nanking.”

  Families grabbed their luggage and children, then swarmed through the doors to the platform outside. They queued up outside the train cars, shoving, pushing, and punching to keep their spot in line. Soldiers paced alongside the throngs, trying to maintain order.

  As the main terminal emptied out like a deflating balloon, the sly-looking Green Gang man kept still. Pressed up against the wall, the lanky thug kept his hands hidden in voluminous shirt sleeves. A gun, knife, or hatchet waited inside those sleeves should Tom try and board the Shanghai-Nanking Express.

  Locking eyes with the man, Tom braced himself, then strode directly toward him. The gangster tensed, his hands fumbling inside the sleeves.

  “That won’t be necessary, friend,” he said. “Tell Feng Lung-wei and Grandmaster Tu that I’m not going anywhere. Shanghai is my home and Lai Huang-fu is no coward.”

  The slinking hoodlum bit his lip, and slowly drew his hands out his sleeves. With a supplicating bow, he croaked out, “Of course, Excellency.”

  Without a word, Tom turned and walked back to the exit, away from the shrill train whistles and desperate cries of panicked passengers.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Yan Ping parked the Bentley and Tom hopped out, where a rush of chilly air met him. Pausing for a moment in front of Club Twilight’s glowing neon sign, Tom soaked up its warmth. The club would be open for business soon, so he needed to plan his next move. Hopefully, the Kuomintang’s pressure would get Tu and Feng to back off, but if not…

  Holy hell, did he need a drink. Yan Ping opened the front door and they walked into the main hall, resplendent with its crisscrossed American and Chinese flags. The staff was busy setting up – bartenders stocked liquor, taxi dancers applied last minute makeup, and waiters laid out silverware. Tom glanced over to Charles Whitfield’s table and wondered if he’d ever see the US Consulate man again.

  Tom gravitated toward the bar and ordered a J&B on the rocks. Sipping the drink, he weighed his chances of surviving past tomorrow. Probably sixty-forty in favor of being shot, firecrackered, or whatever Feng Lung-wei’s diseased little mind could come up with.

  Behind him, a squeal of saxophones and trumpets erupted. Tom turned around to observe the Twilight Band rehearsing a pleasing rendition of “Shanghai Honeymoon.” He took another sip of Scotch and let the music seep in. If he really was going to die tomorrow, then he’d spend all the time with Mei-chen he could, dancing to jazz until time ran out. Drink in hand, Tom walked upstairs to their private apartment and knocked.

  “Come in!” Mei-chen’s voice sounded like honey.

  Tom entered, closing the door behind him. The caged cricket sat on the floor, beside his Beautiful Pearl who busied herself in front of a vanity mirror with eyeliner. Her reflection flashed him a bright smile. A record played on the phonograph, and Tom recognized the nasally voice of Li Ming-hui singing “The Drizzle.” The charming ditty was China’s first foray into modern music, lighthearted and frivolous. The jukebox had played it when he and Mei-chen first danced together at the Great World, filling him with warm memories ever since.

  “How are you, darling?” she asked in English.

  Tom took a swig of Scotch before answering, “I’ve been better.”

  Her pretty face scrunched into a pout. “Why’s that?”

  Making his way across the room, he hovered over his desk before removing the Browning automatic from his coat. Club Twilight was his domain after all; he was safe here. Appearing too cautious might be a loss of face in front of his staff and guests. After tossing the pistol inside the drawer, Tom plopped himself on the bed and swirled his drink. His eyes moved from the Scotch and over to the table, where Mei-chen’s flared leather gauntlets lay next to issues of Photoplay. He envied her ignorance. Only after polishing off the drink did he lift his gaze to Mei-chen’s warm brown eyes.

  “Darling, what’s wrong?”

  He sat there mute with a lump in his throat. How could he explain everything to her? Tom Lai had never been superstitious, but admitting he might be killed tomorrow was like tempting fate. Even more, Ho Mei-chen had always had a special venom for Shanghai, and now it seemed like this city would actually be the death of him. He hoped she wouldn’t say ‘I told you so.’

  Clearing his throat, Tom said, “Turns out I might only have another day to live.”

  Horrified surprise stretched out Mei-chen’s face. “What are you saying?”

  “That meeting with Tu Yueh-sheng wasn’t about raising his protection fees.” Tom took a deep breath. “Somebody has been using my club to pass along secrets to Japanese spies. The best part is that the Green Gang thinks I’m one of them.”

  He forced a laugh, hoping to hide his worry. Mei-chen said nothing and stared at the ground. “Why do they think that?”

  Tom shrugged. “They tortured a man named Ono into confessing everything he knew. I don’t like the Japs much, but I felt sorry for this poor bastard.”

  He shook his head, trying to rid his mind of Ono’s bloodied corpse.

  Mei-chen’s pretty face twitched. “Wh-what did he say?”

  “That he used Club Twilight as a rendezvous spot to pick up documents. Apparently, he never even saw his contact, but that doesn’t matter. It’s my club so it’s my responsibility.” Tom expelled a bitter sigh.

  “S-so, you don’t know who Ono’s contact was?”

  “Unfortunately, I do...”

  “…who…?”

  “Chuck.”

  “Charles Whitfield?” Mei-chen’s concern seemed to evaporate, replaced by a strange confusion. “B-but why would he spy for the Japs?”

  “Who knows?” Tom said with a shrug. “The depression has hurt everyone, even Boston Brahmins. Maybe his family needs some extra dough.”

  “I see…how unfortunate…”

  “The Drizzle” faded out and silence spread throughout the apartment, broken only by the cricket’s bleating chirps and the record scratching. There was no time to sit around and wallow in self-pity. Better to make the most of the time they had left. Tom stood and went over to the phonograph. He put on the same record from last night – “Sing-Song Girl of Old Shanghai” – and extended his hand. Mei-chen donned her leather gloves and took it. She rested her head on his shoulder as they swayed to and fro, animated by the jazzy melody.

  As they danced, Tom’s thoughts drifted to the past, the present, and the future. Perhaps if he had been more careful about who he let into Club Twilight, then maybe none of this would have happened. Hopefully, Captain Tung and Chow were working hard right now to save his life. And, if he did die tomorrow, what would his parents and big brother say when they found out? An image of the Lai family lighting incense and praying for his soul filled him with a deep, shameful sorrow. And what would become of his Beautiful Pearl? He’d have to write a farewell letter to them all, just in case.

  A knock at the door halted their steps.

  “What is it?” Tom said, switching back to Shanghainese.

  “A visitor,” Yan said from behind the other side.

  “Tell them I’m busy.”

  “But boss, it’s that Japanese from earlier. Yoshida.”

  Tom released his grip on Mei-chen’s hand and said, “Excuse me.” Opening the door, he leaned out and asked Yan in a whisper, “What does he want?”

  “He says he has a message for you,” Yan said, lowering his voice. “I asked him to wait in the storage room.”

  Tom nodded and f
ollowed Yan down the stairs and into the back hallway. Yan opened the door to the storage room, where Yoshida, wearing a khaki trench coat and fedora, sat at the small table. The ronin glanced up as they entered, his dark eyes following their every move.

  “Yes? What do you want?” Tom snapped, leaning against a crate full of liquor.

  “I need to speak to you about something,” Yoshida said. He shifted his gaze over to Yan Ping. “Alone.”

  Tom’s curiosity was piqued, but he’d be damned if he was going be alone – unarmed – with this ronin.

  “Search him Yan,” Tom ordered. “Then leave us.”

  The beefy bodyguard nodded and walked over to Yoshida, who rose slowly. A glint of metal flashed in the overhead electric lights, reaching out to strike. Yan Ping stumbled backward, blood bursting from his torso. After a few jerking steps, he crashed hard onto the floor. Gore flecked his thick mustache while his eyes searched for some desperate, pitiful way to escape. Finally, they settled on Tom with a sad, apologetic look before glazing over. Loyal to the end.

  Yoshida advanced forward, his trench coat wide open and a short sword in his hand. Tom recognized it as a yoroi-doshi, a short sword sheathed in wood and weapon of choice for Japanese rabble rousers. Made for piercing samurai armor, it was just small enough to conceal inside a trench coat. Apparently, this ronin took his namesake quite literally. Locking the blade in place, Yoshida prepared to deliver a killing blow.

  “I just wanted to say ‘sayonara.’”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  The yoroi-doshi gleamed in the electric light, allowing Tom to catch a brief glimpse of his reflection in it. Pale and wide-eyed, he looked like a prisoner awaiting execution. Here he was concerned about the Green Gang when he should have been more worried about the Japanese.

  Releasing a battle cry, Yoshida charged and swung the blade horizontally – perfect for a beheading. Tom dropped to the ground and rolled, avoiding the lethal slash. Crackling glass filled the storeroom, as a row of liquor bottles shattered in the wake of Yoshida’s sword. The ronin steadied himself, realigning for another attack. Springing up, Tom turned toward the door and ran.

  He burst out into the hallway and found himself dashing into the main hall. Taxi dancers and bartenders gawked at him with dumbfounded expressions.

  “Call the Police!” Tom managed to shout in between gasps of air.

  Glinting metal drew closer in his peripheral, and Tom dove straight toward the band pit, scattering its members. Tom landed hard on his stomach, knocking the wind out of him. Tubas, trumpets, and saxophones clattered to the floor as the musicians fled in fear. The taxi dancers shrieked in unison, their panic almost palpable. Grasping for any semblance of a weapon, Tom gripped a nearby tenor saxophone and swung around.

  Yoshida rushed closer, the yoroi-doshi raised high above his head, ready to deliver the coup de grace. Tom heaved the sax up into the sword’s path. The blade bit into the instrument, but met firm resistance, allowing Tom to swing both across the band pit.

  Disarmed, Yoshida lashed out his fists, allowing Tom to grip one of his arms and pull the ronin down to the floor with him. Tom managed to land a punch to Yoshida’s face, but the blow wasn’t enough to waylay the ronin. Within moments, Yoshida quickly recovered and dashed toward the sword laying impotent across the room. Tom heaved himself to his feet and glanced for help.

  The taxi dancers pressed themselves against the wall, squealing in terror, while the bartenders took refuge behind the counter. Not that he blamed them. After all, he paid Yan Ping for security, not them. He shook his head free of guilt, at least for the time being. He needed to concentrate on staying alive, then he’d have the rest of his life to mourn poor Yan.

  The only thing that could beat a sword was a gun, and unfortunately, his was upstairs. Tom glanced over, seeing Yoshida pry the yoroi-doshi from the saxophone. He’d only have one shot at this. Turning, Tom ran out of the main hall, into the narrow corridor of storage rooms, and then up the stairs. Halting in front of his apartment, he almost ripped the doorknob off as he stormed inside.

  Mei-chen sat on the bed, busy reading an issue of Photoplay. Only when Tom slammed the door behind him did she glance up with wide, surprised eyes.

  “Darling, what’s wrong?”

  Tom didn’t respond and ran over to the desk, where his Browning automatic was nestled inside. With twitching, nervous fingers, he tore open the drawer and fumbled for the gun. Behind him, a loud whoosh announced the arrival of Yoshida. Tom grasped the Browning and swung his aim around, but it was too late. With a quick dash, the ronin made his way across the apartment and sank an iron grip around Mei-chen’s neck while the yoroi-doshi sword raised up to her throat. Photoplay slipped from Mei-chen’s gloved fingers and crumpled on the floor.

  “Drop the gun,” Yoshida growled, “or I’ll cut her throat.”

  Tom kept the gun pointed, but adrenaline distorted his aim. Situated behind Mei-chen, the crafty Nipponese held all the cards. There was no way Tom could get a clear shot now, even if he weren’t shaking like a leaf.

  “Let her go first,” he managed to rasp out.

  Yoshida growled again, animalistic and annoyed. “You are in no position to give orders! Drop your gun or she dies!”

  The Browning rattled in Tom’s hand, now moist with sweat. Without thinking, he knelt down, placed the pistol on the floor, and rose a defeated man. Yoshida left the safety behind Mei-chen, but still kept the sword locked under her throat.

  “It won’t be so easy for either of you. This is a matter of honor. I want you to feel the same loss of face I experienced when you humiliated me in front of Commander Fukuzaki.” The ronin eyed Mei-chen like a cat playing with mice. “I’ll hack your little whore to pieces in front of you…first her ears, then her nose, then her…” The blade glided down to Mei-chen’s breasts.

  Tom swallowed. Just like the samurai of old, he thought, who plucked the noses and ears off defenseless peasants. A silent tension spread out before them, soon punctured by the caged cricket’s loud chirps. The annoying bug was soon drowned out by a barrage of angry Japanese. Yoshida remained quiet with widening eyes. Mei-chen talked, berated, and demanded in fluent, accentless Japanese. Tom hadn’t a clue what she was saying, but the words “Fukuzaki Chusa” were repeated over and over.

  The sword retreated from Mei-chen’s body and hung limply at Yoshida’s side. The ronin’s stupefied face went pale. He offered a slight but apologetic bow, giving Tom an opening. With one fluid motion, he dropped down, grabbed the Browning, aimed, and fired. Bullets tore bloody holes in Yoshida’s torso as he tumbled backward, plopping onto the bed. A death rattle wheezed as the ronin’s fingers slackened, letting the sword tumble to the floor with a loud clang.

  Tom took enormous gasps of air, trying to steel his jangled nerves. The gun shook in his hands as he looked at the corpse. How the hell was he going to explain this to his staff? But a more troubling thought appeared. He looked over to Mei-chen and didn’t see his Beautiful Pearl anymore. Here in his own apartment was the Japanese spy.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Tom aimed the Browning automatic straight at Mei-chen’s face. She glared at it, her brown eyes cold and analytical. What was going through that dark mind of hers, full of so many secrets? Maybe she was thinking about what a sucker he’d been. Shame and humiliation burned through him. He glanced over to Yoshida’s bloodied body, sprawled out on the bed—their bed. A slight nausea prickled his stomach.

  “What are you going to do, darling?” she asked in English. In that blazing red cheongsam and black leather gloves, she looked like a beautiful Satan. Tom lowered the gun to her chest.

  “Get some answers for starters. Who are you, really? What’s your real name?”

  Mei-chen heaved a sigh, full of melancholy. “Does it matter?”

  No, it probably didn’t. On to the next question. “Are you Japanese?”

  “No...” she said with another sigh.

  “So, you betrayed your count
ry?”

  An angry defiance swept over Mei-chen’s face. “I never betrayed my country.”

  “I don’t know what that means, but you can explain to the Green Gang.” Keeping the Browning locked on her, Tom inched over to telephone.

  “Please don’t do that,” she pleaded, clasping her hands together.

  “Why not? After all, you were going to let me take the fall. That’s all I was to you, huh? An American rube.”

  Mei-chen didn’t answer, but tears welled in her eyes.

  “And I swallowed it, hook, line and sinker. What an idiot I’ve been! Thinking about marriage, living in San Francisco…” he scoffed, trying to hide his own tears.

  Although Tom hated to admit it, her betrayal hurt worse than any physical pain he’d endured. He could handle a stab in the back from Whitfield, but had anything between them been real? It had been for him at least. That made the pain even worse.

  “You were going to let the Green Gang kill me! You set me up, didn’t you?”

  “No, that’s not true, I swear it!” she cried, balling her hands into fists. “I had no idea the Green Gang discovered my notes. Please Tom, I didn’t want to spy for Japan…but…but Commander Fukuzaki forced me to!”

  Mei-chen – or whatever her name was – fixed him with a pitiful, morose look. Her eyes were so bleary from tears that they looked like shimmering diamonds. The gun shook in Tom’s hand, but he took a deep breath to steady it.

  “Commander Fukuzaki? He’s your handler, isn’t he?”

  “Yes, he said he’d kill me if I didn’t spy for him.” With careful, dainty steps, she inched toward him. “Please Tom, protect me from him. All I want is to go to America and start over…with you.”

  Tears had smudged her mascara, but she still looked radiant. His brain went numb, his muscles slackened, his will bent. Suddenly, Tom had a newfound sympathy for opium addicts. Oh God, why was he so weak around her?

  “Darling, I would never hurt you,” she cooed. “I swear it.”