Shanghai Twilight

by Matthew Legare

  “Ah, I see,” he said. “I’m sorry to hear that, Lai Huang-fu. Still, it is not surprising. Deceit comes naturally to women, especially in this city. As Confucious said, ‘Chaos does not come down from Heaven, it is caused by women.’”

  “Sounds like a man who’s never been in love.”

  An awkward silence spread between them, so Tom looked out into the street. Only a few coolies in silk shirts and skullcaps roamed about today. Poor wretches who stayed behind while middle-class Shanghainese managed to flee.

  “Still think there’s going to be a war?” Tom asked.

  “Mayor Wu has until today to accept or reject the Japanese demands.” Captain Tung cracked his knuckles. “Regardless, we’re ready for a fight. The 19th Route Army will pay those devils back for what they did to Manchuria.”

  “You know a war will destroy Shanghai.”

  Captain Tung scoffed and fixed Tom with a steely gaze. “If we don’t slay this ravenous wolf now, how many more provinces will it devour? Better all of Shanghai be destroyed if it saves China.”

  “Speaking of China, have you managed to contact that man from the Finance Ministry, Chow? If there’s ever been a time I needed a favor, now is it.”

  “No, I’m sorry. He won’t return my calls. Lai Huang-fu, if you’re not going to fight, I suggest you leave the city. I say that as a friend.”

  Tom couldn’t hold back a bitter sigh. “I would, but the Green Gang has all exits covered. I’m a dead man if I run, I’m a dead man if I stay. Unless I can find…” He trailed off again. Her name kept getting caught in his throat.

  “It will be difficult. There are three million people in Shanghai, but if I were you, I’d start looking in Little Tokyo. That little snake probably slithered off to her handlers for protection.”

  “No, she wasn’t heading toward Hongkew. She was running south, to the Soochow Creek.”

  What was down there for her? Surely, Mei-chen would find safety in Little Tokyo. Commander Fukuzaki probably had a room ready for her in the Golden Unicorn. Maybe there was a Nipponese safehouse down in the International Settlement, or maybe she was running away from the Japanese. Charles Whitfield had an apartment there, near the American Club. Whitfield had never invited him over, since they usually just met at Club Twilight. Suddenly, those top secret documents appeared in his mind. The details about several US Navy gunboats had been written in English, as if it had been written by a native speaker.

  Mei-chen had been studying English in preparation for their new life in San Francisco. Charles Whitfield had access to those documents. Suddenly, all of his concern for that “poor kid” took on a new dimension. How could he have not seen it before? Betrayed by his woman and by his best friend. He really was a first-rate sucker.

  Balling his fists, Tom choked down his rage. He couldn’t lose control in front of Tung. Asking the Captain for help was out of the question since he’d helped enough already. Besides, the 19th Route Army had no authority in the International Settlement. Tom needed to get down there as soon as possible before Whitfield smuggled Mei-chen – or whatever her real name was – out of Shanghai forever.

  “Captain, I have one more favor to ask,” Tom said. Tung raised an eyebrow. “Mind giving me a ride back to Club Twilight?”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  The staff car halted in front of Club Twilight, filling Tom with a bittersweet sadness. He was home, but now it was tainted with nightmarish memories. Even worse, every happy moment he had shared with Mei-chen now seemed phony and hollow. No, he wouldn’t wallow in self-pity. Tom Lai was nobody’s rube. Instead, he’d find Mei-chen and Whitfield to get some answers.

  Sitting next to him, Captain Tung extended his hand. “I wish you the best of luck, Lai Huang-fu.”

  “You too, Captain. Thanks again for all your help.”

  They shook hands, and Tom gave a friendly squeeze for emphasis. Just in case this was their final meeting, he wanted to remember the Captain this way; a stoic warrior, but also a tender-hearted friend. Unlike that two-faced snake, Charles Whitfield. There was an old Chinese saying – ‘Good iron doesn’t make nails, and good men don’t become soldiers.’ Captain Tung Hsi-shan proved such talk was bullshit.

  Tom exited the car and a chilly breeze blew against his face. He walked toward Club Twilight, but Captain Tung called him back.

  “Remember Lai Huang-fu,” he said, through an open window. “There are many women, but only one China.”

  Tom nodded his understanding. Just like a soldier to put patriotism above all else, especially love. Building a New China was what had lured him to Shanghai in the first place. But now this New China might just be the death of him. Maybe he should have just stayed in San Francisco. He shook such thoughts out of his head, and waved Captain Tung off. The staff car pulled away from the curb and into the streets of Chapei.

  Turning around, Tom marched into Club Twilight, the prodigal son returning. However, as he entered the main hall, a thick, evil sensation engulfed him. Most of the staff didn’t begin work until later, but a few porters and bartenders stood off to the side, as if they were facing a firing squad. A quick inspection told why.

  Feng Lung-wei and his entourage toured the club like evil spirits. With him were the two brutish gorillas from yesterday, along with an auburn-haired white woman. Tom scrutinized her face and remembered her glazed expression back at the opium den – Feng’s Russian mistress. Clad in a fur-trimmed coat and feathered hat, the woman clung to that gangster brat as he led her around like a dog on a leash. They inspected the crisscrossed American and Chinese flags, the tables, and fully stocked bar.

  Wearing a black overcoat over his shoulders, along with a black pinstripe suit and fedora, Feng Lung-wei swaggered about as if he owned the damn place. Tom walked straight toward them, making his presence known.

  “Looking for a job?” he asked in English as Feng and his cohorts turned to face him. “I’m afraid we’re not hiring at the moment.”

  Shock and disbelief swept across the gangsters’ faces. Feng’s eyes bulged, but after a moment he regained his arrogant composure and greeted Tom with a sly grin.

  “Tommy! I’m surprised to see you here.”

  “Obviously so,” Tom muttered.

  “Lieutenant Kuo telephoned me this morning and said you’d been arrested. Knowing the Lieutenant, I figured you’d be his guest for a very long time.”

  Tom flashed a smile. “Sorry to disappoint you, but I have connections in this city as well.”

  “Well, it appears I underestimated you, Tommy.” Feng turned toward the rest of his party and said, “Give us a little privacy?”

  The two mugs nodded, but the redhead began complaining in rapid-fire Russian. An angry scowl contorted Feng’s face as he slapped his hand across her cheek, leaving behind a bright pink splotch. The Russian girl showed no emotion, no hint of pain. Perhaps all that opium had eaten away at her nerve endings. After a brief, stupefied moment, she gave a supplicating nod and retreated with the two henchmen over to the bar.

  “Russian women,” Feng snorted with a resigned shrug. “They think just because they’re white, they can talk back to our kind. At least Chinese girls know when to shut up.”

  “Speaking of which, where’s your other skirt?”

  Shaking his head, Feng said, “Such a tragedy. Opium finally consumed what was left of her brain. Our people are more susceptible to that drug. She was almost catatonic, so my men disposed of her yesterday. That’s why I was at the Great World.” His grin broadened. “Fan-tan always cheers me up.”

  Tom wondered how the poor girl had been disposed of. Probably nothing too brutal. A gunshot to the head or drowning in the Whangpoo River. The most vicious Green Gang killings were reserved for men who couldn’t pay their debts, rival gangsters, Communists, and spies. Could he really subject Mei-chen to that horror? Well, it was either him or her, and Tom Lai was a survivor.

  Feng bent over and scrutinized Tom’s hands. “Still have your fingernails? I suppos
e Lieutenant Kuo didn’t have time to give you the Shanghai manicure!”

  Tom balled a fist. “Disappointed?”

  “More like surprised. Imagine my shock when Kuo rang me up, telling me you’d been arrested last night. Something about assaulting a woman, along with two dead bodies at your club? A boy scout like you! I almost didn’t believe it!”

  “I’m full of surprises.”

  “Who killed the Jap? You or that little twist of yours?”

  “Me.”

  “Coming here to silence you, now that your cover was blown up, eh?

  “That’s ‘your cover’s been blown.’”

  “Yes, yes, a blown cover! But you got the drop on him first, eh?”

  “No,” Tom said through gritted teeth. “You know how the Japanese are about honor. Apparently, my visit to the Golden Unicorn caused Yoshida to lose face with his boss, Commander Fukuzaki. He thought he could regain it by removing my head.”

  Feng shrugged again. “Regardless, since your time is almost up, I figured I might as well swing by, since this whole joint will soon become property of the Green Gang.”

  “Sorry to spoil your plans, but I’ve identified the spy.”

  “Yes, yes, Charlie Whitman or whatever his name is. I told you before Tommy, we can’t just kill an officer working at US Consulate. If he was a private citizen, then perhaps…”

  “His name is Charles Whitfield. And he wasn’t working alone.” Tom glanced over to the Russian woman, looking almost comatose as she just stared at the bar. The two beefy gangsters searched her up and down with prying eyes. Could he really turn his Beautiful Pearl over to this scum?

  “Well, don’t keep me in suspense, Tommy. Who was this other spy? I’m dying to know.”

  The name was caught in his throat again, but he forced it out. “Ho Mei-chen.”

  Genuine surprise widened Feng’s eyes and slackened his jaw. Shock gave way to sadistic delight. “Oh, that’s rich,” he said with a laugh. “Your little twist, a Japanese spy! Oh, Tommy, I almost feel bad for you.” He shook his head and pointed to the redheaded Russian. “If one of my dames ever did that to me, I’d cut out her tongue and make her eat it. Where is she now?”

  “She took a run-out powder. Look, I still have until tonight to find her. You can’t kill an American Consulate officer, but I’ll give you Ho Mei-chen gift wrapped.”

  Feng gave a dismissive snort. “I’m still not convinced you’re innocent, Tommy. It sounds like you’re just trying to save your own skin by ratting out the others. That’s why Yoshida was here. To silence you both.”

  “Believe whatever you want, I don’t care. All that matters is what Grandmaster Tu thinks. I’ll drop by Frenchtown this evening with her and—”

  “No!” Feng snapped. “My uncle will not allow a Jap spy in his villa. He ordered me to handle this matter personally. You’re only alive right now because my uncle is fond of you, otherwise you’d be full of bullets alongside Goro Ono. I will come back here tonight, and you’d better not empty-handed when I do.”

  “Tonight? Aren’t you afraid of a war breaking out? Chapei will become a battleground.”

  An ominous snicker escaped Feng’s lips. “You don’t know from nothing, do you Tommy?”

  “I’m beginning to feel like those three monkeys,” he said with a shrug.

  “Well, I have it on good authority that there won’t be any war.”

  “There won’t?”

  “No. Mayor Wu will accept the Japanese demands. Another national humiliation! First Manchuria, now this?” Feng shook his head bitterly. “I’ll have to take my anger out on a Jap spy. Perhaps it will be your little whore, or maybe you, Tommy.”

  Reaching into his pinstripe suit, Feng jerked out a Smith & Wesson revolver. Leveling it, he fired and blasted a bottle of Bacardi Rum into pieces. Brown liquid burst outward, dousing the Russian woman’s red hair with alcohol and glass shards. Other than a pair of widened eyes, she showed no emotion.

  Feng Lung-wei holstered the revolver and slid into his long black overcoat. Snapping his fingers brought his henchmen and mistress over to an immediate orbit.

  “See? There will be lots of fireworks later tonight! So you’d better not try and skip town.”

  Tom gave a slow nod. “Like I told your man, I’m not running.”

  “Good, because you won’t get far,” Feng snickered again, then glanced at his wristwatch. “Goodness, it’s half past noon. You only have a few hours left. Use them well, Tommy.”

  With an ominous laugh, Feng Lung-wei led his entourage out the doors. After their exit, a black cloud seemed to lift from the entire club. The porters rushed to his side like frightened children.

  “Boss, we’re so glad to see you!”

  “We were so worried!”

  Tom gave a paternal smile. He couldn’t lose face, especially not in front of his employees. Better to show confidence no matter what.

  “Well, you heard what that turtle’s egg said! There won’t be a war, so Club Twilight will be open as usual. Let’s get ready!”

  The porters smiled, then rushed to their posts. Tom slid behind the bar counter and poured himself a tall glass of J&B Scotch. He skipped breakfast, so this would have to suffice. Draining it with thirsty gulps, he felt his fighting spirit return. Tom Lai was a survivor and nobody’s fool. He wiped his mouth and headed toward the doors. Time was ticking, and he had some spies to catch.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Secure in the Bentley, Tom headed east on Soochow Road and into Hongkew like a tank plowing through enemy territory. He drove himself, rather than risk his usual chauffeur ending up like poor Yan Ping. Traffic was thick and heavy, the last remnants of the Chinese middle class driving whatever they could into the International Settlement. Up ahead, several full-sized trucks carrying Japanese Marines drove the other way toward Chapei. If war came, the Mikado’s men would be in Chinese territory within minutes.

  But according to that gangster brat, there wasn’t going to be any war. Feng Lung-wei was well-informed, Tom had to admit that. But would Mayor Wu really accept those humiliating demands? Well, China had been swallowing humiliation after humiliation for almost a century now. The Opium War had not only shattered China’s arrogance, but also created the International Settlement, transforming Shanghai from a dreary port into this seething metropolis.

  Cruising further east, the magnificent Astor House Hotel appeared on the left. Standing six stories with a stone edifice and grand arched windows, the hotel was the premier place for foreign visitors to stay in Shanghai. A stream of white men and women entered and exited the Astor House, greeted by an astute doorman in a garish uniform and epaulettes. Most doormen in Shanghai were Russians, former officers of the White Army who’d been licked in the Civil War by the Bolsheviks. At least the poor bastard still got to wear a uniform.

  Even more insulting was the Soviet Consulate that stood on the opposite side of the street. Thankfully though, this hive of intrigue had been abandoned since China and the USSR had severed diplomatic relations after a brief border war in 1929. Tom parked his car across from the Astor House, giving him a clear view of both the German and American consulates down the road. Whitfield would have to leave sometime.

  *****

  After three hours of waiting, hunger finally caught up with Tom and demanded his attention. After all, he hadn’t eaten since last night. Up ahead, several Chinese clustered around a food cart. Tom hopped out of the Bentley and caught a savory whiff. He recognized it immediately – steamed bao buns.

  Tom ordered one and bit into it, savoring the pork filling inside. The taste reminded him of his mother’s cooking, although the meat in her bao was always glazed with sweet hoisin sauce. What would his family think about the mess he was in now? His mother would probably cry and burn a few incense sticks at the family altar. His big brother would be angry, but ready to fight whoever attacked a member of the Lai clan. And his father? Papa Lai would probably say how ashamed he was that his foolish son c
hose misguided patriotism – whether for America or China – over his familial duties. After all, a nation was nothing. Family was everything.

  For a moment, he wondered if the old man was right. But picturing himself slaving away in the Lai Family Laundry Shop discouraged the thought. Shanghai was his home, for better or worse. He devoured the rest of the pork bao bun, then ordered three more. Each tasted better than the last. Across the street, a newsboy hawked papers next to the entrance of the Astor House Hotel.

  “Extra, extra! Mayor Wu accepts all Japanese demands! War averted! Extra, extra!”

  Tom swallowed the last of his bao, then crossed the street. He bought an issue of the Shanghai Evening Post & Mercury. Reading a Chinese newspaper required memorization of thousands of complex characters, but thankfully, the Shanghai Evening Post was in English. Skimming the headline story confirmed Feng Lung-wei’s earlier promise. Mayor Wu Tieh-cheng had indeed accepted the Japanese demands. The Chinese Republic would apologize for the murder of a Japanese monk, compensate the other victims, suppress anti-Japanese organizations, and most importantly, end the boycott on Japanese goods.

  Tom folded the newspaper and breathed a heavy sigh. There wasn’t going to be a war. Shanghai was saved. Now, he just needed to save himself.

  “Thank goodness,” an Australian voice said behind him. Tom turned and found a white couple, dressed to the nines, reading a copy of the Shanghai Evening Post.

  “Looks like the Japs won’t attack,” the Aussie man said. “Good thing, since it would have been a blood bath.”

  “I hope they do the world a favor and wipe each other out,” his companion, a petite blonde, sneered. “Oh, the yellow races behave so beastly!”

  “And that’s why we stopped these Oriental termites from infesting our country,” the man said, puffing his chest out. “Australia is for white men and by God, it’ll stay that way!”