The cops continued firing well after the Japanese plane disappeared into the murky night. Tom and Mei-chen emerged from behind the car, now riddled with bullets.
“Stinking dwarf bandits,” the senior officer spat out. “We’ll make them pay. This won’t be like Manchuria, I swear it!”
“All well and good,” Tom said, “but where are the Chinese planes? The Japanese have full control of the skies!”
“The Nationalist Government is sending planes down from Nanking, but it will take time,” the officer said, examining Tom with a contemptuous sneer. “Who are you to criticize? An able-bodied man like yourself should be in the 19th Route Army!”
“I’ve already fought in a war,” Tom said.
“Oh, have you now?” The senior officer looked Tom up and down. “Let me guess…former warlord soldier turned gangster?”
“I’m an American,” Tom snapped back.
The officer sneered again. Mei-chen stepped forward, clasping her gloved hands together.
“Please elder brother, we’re just trying to find shelter. Is there anywhere we can take refuge?”
She added an imploring smile, perfecting the image of a demure, helpless Chinese beauty. As if on cue, the cops caved.
“There’s a few empty warehouses and cotton mills two blocks north. Hide in there until these planes disperse,” the officer said, gesturing with his Mauser.
“Thank you, oh thank you, elder brother,” Mei-chen cooed. The senior officer mustered his men and they marched eastward, toward the conflagration. Up above, the planes continued to circle the city like vultures over carrion.
*****
Just like the cop said, there were plenty of empty buildings to take refuge in, for the time being at least. Heavy artillery or bombs could pound them into dust in a moment’s notice. Tom thought back to his time in the Argonne Forest. That war had been mostly been fought out in the fields, away from civilians. Sure, Zeppelins had bombed London and the Germans had shelled Paris, but the bulk of the war was between soldiers in the mud and slime of the trenches. This war was taking place in the most congested city on earth, block by block, house by house. The only hope now was that it’d be short.
They approached a dingy-looking cotton mill and yanked the door handle. Locked. Tom whipped out his Browning, fired a shot into the lock, and pushed the door open. Tom went in first, followed closely by Mei-chen. The first floor was comprised of several doors – all locked – so they ascended the stairs to the second story. A musty odor hung in the air, the concoction of years of sweat, tears, and blood. Imposing equipment lined the floors, the spinning machines and pirns that twirled cotton into all types of clothes. Just by the filth on the floor – dust, stains, and an occasional dead cockroach – Tom could tell that this cotton mill produced the cheapest goods for the hoi polloi of Shanghai.
Still, a refuge was a refuge, and they couldn’t complain. But the smell was unbearable, so Tom walked over to the elongated window and cracked open a pane. Chilly air flooded in, and Mei-chen rubbed her gloved hands up and down her bare arms. Spy or not, Tom couldn’t let a beautiful woman suffer. He rummaged in his coat pocket and removed the Browning pistol, but also grabbed the documents Whitfield had forged – the phony passport and birth certificate.
He slid the documents into his jacket, then removed the overcoat and threw it over Mei-chen’s shoulders. On the second story, they had a clearer view of the International Settlement, bathed in a warm neon glow. For a moment, everything was forgotten and an aura of romance engulfed Tom. Without thinking, he leaned forward to kiss her, but stopped when the angry hum of planes buzzed up above.
As Mei-chen huddled close to him and Tom held her tight, they tensed into statues. A well-placed explosive would tear the cotton mill asunder and pulverize them into bloody smears. Would they be lucky enough to survive two bombings in one night? After minutes that felt like hours, the propeller drone faded and they both expelled relieved sighs.
“I’m sorry about Club Twilight,” Mei-chen offered, wrapping the overcoat tighter around her.
Tom chuckled. “That’s the one thing that isn’t your fault.”
“Still, I know how much it meant to you. It was a beautiful club.”
“Yes…yes it was…”
They stared out the window at the twinkling lights of International Settlement. What a difference a few hours made. He’d gone from handing her over to the Green Gang, to being saved by her, and now they were on the run together like star-crossed lovers who’d just eloped.
Tom cleared his throat and asked, “Why did you save me? Back at the club…”
Mei-chen continued to stare out the window. “For all the trouble I’ve caused you...it’s the least I could do.”
Tom couldn’t argue with that. He wasn’t ready to forgive Ho Mei-chen – or whatever her real name was – but he could try not to hate her.
“What are we going to do?”
Tom shrugged. “What can we do? Try and survive the night. Hopefully, a truce will be declared soon.”
“I hope so…”
They stood in a tense silence, punctured by the crack of rifle fire and fading screams in the distance. They’d have to stay here throughout the night and, come morning, try and make it into a neutral zone. Down on the street below, a pair of headlights sliced through the darkness. A bullet-riddled Mercedes ground to a halt and out stepped four sinister figures. Feng Lung-wei, brandishing the Tommy gun like a torch, his gorilla henchman, and two Chinese police officers – Sergeant Frankenstein and Lieutenant Kuo.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Tom and Mei-chen crouched down but kept close to the open window. They shared an apprehensive look before peering back down to the street below. With a torn suit and overcoat and bloody splotches around his mouth, Feng Lung-wei looked as if he’d returned from the dead. But the others huddled around him like baseball players around their coach.
“You’re sure Lai Huang-fu is here?” Feng asked, lisping slightly from a bloody mouthful of broken teeth.
“My men reported that they saw two people matching the description of Lai and his little whore,” Lieutenant Kuo said. “They directed them to hide out here and wait for the bombing to end.”
Feng snorted. “Fine. We’ll search the warehouse,” he said, pointing with his Tommy gun across the street. “You and the Sergeant will take the cotton mill.” He pointed up toward the window. Tom and Mei-chen crouched lower.
“But Mr. Feng,” Kuo whined. “The Sergeant and I need to return to our men. The Police are the first line of defense against the Japanese—”
Feng shoved the barrel of the Tommy gun underneath Kuo’s chin, nearly lifting the Lieutenant off his feet.
“What the hell do I pay you for? Lai Huang-fu dies first. I can’t have him going off and talking to my uncle. As soon as Lai is dead, then we’ll kill those dwarf bandits one by one. Understand?”
“Yes, sir! Whatever you say, sir!” Kuo gurgled out, and Feng tore the Tommy gun away. The gangsters broke off and entered the dim, forbidding warehouse, while Lieutenant Kuo and Sergeant Frankenstein advanced into the cotton mill. Tom whipped out the Browning automatic and gestured for Mei-chen to follow him. Toward the back of the room, they crouched behind a row of spinning machines which provided them ample cover. Peering through the gaps between spindles, they waited.
Heavy footsteps on the first floor announced the hulking Sergeant Frankenstein was searching down there. Softer steps ascended the stairs and soon, Lieutenant Kuo entered the second floor. Brandishing a Mauser pistol, he crept through each row of spinning machines. Tom probed the Browning through the spindles, but the rows and rows of machinery obstructed a clear shot. It was only a matter of time before Kuo made his way around the corner, where he and Mei-chen would be sitting ducks. Better to go on the attack.
“Stay here,” Tom whispered to Mei-chen, “and don’t move.”
She nodded and wrapped herself deeper into his overcoat, like a tortoise retreating into its
shell. Still crouching, Tom walked around the corner. Lieutenant Kuo bended another row of spinning machines, coming into range. Tom stood, took aim, and fired. A bullet tore a spindle apart, sending scraps of cotton floating down like snowflakes. Alarmed, Kuo thrust out his Mauser pistol and answered with gunfire. Flame brightened the dank cotton mill and lead smashed into the elongated window.
Tom ducked back down behind the safety of the spinning machines as Lieutenant Kuo continued firing. An incessant hammer of bullets ripped through the spindles, blanketing the filthy floor with twisted hunks of metal and white bits of cotton. Tom braved another shot but Kuo had disappeared. Peering into the darkness, Tom saw the outline of a dark blue uniform and peaked cap slinking closer. Lieutenant Kuo rounded the corner and took aim straight at Mei-chen.
Across the aisle, Tom drew a bead on Kuo and fired. A flash of flame flooded the cotton mill and Tom saw a slug catch Lieutenant Kuo right between the eyes. The force threw him backward, knocking off his peaked cap as a final indignity. Kuo’s corpse twitched and jerked, but his fingers held firm onto the Mauser. Out of his periphery, Tom saw another uniformed figure emerge from across the room. Twisting around, he fired the Browning in a renewed attack.
Sergeant Frankenstein’s shoulder exploded in a cloud of blood. His thick fingers released his pistol – also a Mauser – and he began charging at Tom like a stampeding rhino. He struggled to draw a bead on the oncoming beast, but the Sergeant was too fast. His enormous hands slammed Tom hard against the spinning machine. The jagged metal dug deep into Tom’s back, and he exhaled a pained scream.
Frankenstein’s grip was like steel, no matter how hard he struggled. With one hand, he clutched Tom by the throat and squeezed. A terrifying numbness spread throughout Tom’s body and began dimming his mind. His muscles strained to bring the Browning automatic up, but the Sergeant swatted it away, then resumed strangling. Tom kicked and flailed but to his horror, he couldn’t feel his legs anymore.
His breathing lapsed into gasps, and his vision blurred. He was going under and couldn’t fight it any longer. The last thing he’d see was this son of a bitch’s smirking face. But thankfully, something covered his ugly mug nice and tight. Frankenstein’s beefy hands released Tom’s throat, dropping him to the floor. As sensation tingled throughout his arms and legs, Tom took in what was happening.
The Sergeant’s face was entirely covered by his overcoat and the brute was being pulled backward. Mei-chen had wrapped it around Frankenstein’s ghoulish kisser and pulled him backward over one of the spinning machines. Although a dainty little lotus, she nevertheless heaved and pulled with all her might. Frankenstein lashed out his huge hands for his attacker but was helpless as his neck was caught between the spindle.
Moments passed by as Sergeant Frankenstein flailed and grasped in vain, but Mei-chen kept tugging and pulling on the overcoat, still smothering the bastard’s face. Soon, the Sergeant’s massive arms swung impotently beside him, and all movement ceased. Tom shook out the remaining tingles in his hands and feet, then snatched up the Browning. He looked at Mei-chen, still wrapping the overcoat around Frankenstein’s face.
“You can let go now,” Tom said, “he’s dead.”
The statement seemed to awake Mei-chen from a trance. She unwound the coat and slid it back over her shoulders without a second thought. Most Chinese women would be appalled to wear such a coat, convinced evil spirits had now attached themselves to it. But Tom reminded himself that this woman was an agent of the Japanese Empire, trained in espionage and – apparently – hand to hand combat. A sudden chill swept over him, realizing that she had always been – and still was – quite capable of killing him.
Angry shouts from below drew them over to the window. Feng Lung-wei and his henchman were exiting the warehouse, now aware of their presence. In the bright, beaming headlights of the Mercedes, Tom saw Feng raise his weapon up and open fire. In an instant, he and Mei-chen hit the floor as the cackling rat tat tat of the Tommy gun shattered the window into glass shrapnel.
Still shielding himself from the onslaught of falling shards, Tom looked up and saw a back exit behind the rows of spinning machines. Motioning to Mei-chen, they crawled on the filthy floor, past the two dead cops and to the exit. The door was locked, but a blast from the Browning automatic burst it open. Behind him, Tom heard slapping footsteps ascend the stairs. The gangsters would be here in moments.
Tom and Mei-chen tore open the back exit and raced down another flight of stairs, leading to a final door. Mercifully, it opened from the inside and deposited them back out into the streets of Chapei. Out in the frigid night air, a hideous chorus of gunshots, screaming, and droning planes turned Tom’s insides into jelly. They were back in the war, but anything was better than confronting Feng Lung-wei. Without looking back, they ran into the darkness.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
After ducking in and out of alleyways and down narrow side streets that jigsawed throughout Chapei, Tom felt confident enough that they’d lost Feng Lung-wei. Fatigue soon overtook Tom and Mei-chen, slowing their frantic run into weary, plodding steps. Minutes passed by in aimless wandering, until they spotted a movement up ahead at an intersection. It was a grim procession – mothers carried squealing babies on their backs, old men and women hobbled along on canes, and a cross-section of Shanghai’s hoi polloi shuffling forward. The luckiest were carried along in rickshaws, although upon closer inspection, it was only because they were missing an appendage or two.
“Where are you headed?” Tom asked no one in particular.
“The Red Swastika Society,” an elderly woman said without stopping. “There’s a relief station a few blocks west.”
That was a relief. The Red Swastika Society was a Chinese equivalent to the Red Cross, running soup kitchens, poorhouses, and relief programs in areas devastated by famine, flood, and war. If anywhere in Chapei was safe, it would be there. Tom and Mei-chen merged into the procession and let themselves be swept along.
*****
The Red Swastika Society had made their relief station out of a warehouse. People rested and slept on and in between stacks of crates and barrels, all full of textiles, toys, and trinkets. Red swastikas were stamped on banners and flags, both inside and outside the warehouse. As a respected symbol in Buddhism and Taoism, the swastika designated the area as a neutral ground, a no man’s land in this urban jungle.
Unfortunately, there wasn’t much “relief” at this relief station, just a kitchen dispensing congee rice gruel and a rest area attended by a few overwhelmed medics. Wounded Chinese soldiers received special attention and large portions of congee to compensate for their suffering. Bullet holes were the most common, though some soldiers were missing hands, feet, or legs, while others were mummified in blood-soaked bandages.
Tom thought back to the field hospitals in France, full of Doughboys who’d been chewed up by heavy artillery. At least they had the luxury of morphine, but these poor boys had to make do with an opium pipe being passed around. After a few puffs, their cries and wails died down to a numbed, stupefied gaze. Hopefully, this war would end soon or else there would be a Chinese “Lost Generation.”
Tom and Mei-chen each managed to get a single paltry bowl of congee and retreated to a less crowded corner of the warehouse. In between a stack of wooden crates labeled “FUR COATS,” they crouched down alongside a frazzled-looking mother and her two young daughters. At least the boxes provided some concealment, just in case Feng Lung-wei decided to show up.
Tom slurped down a spoonful of steaming congee. It was bland and slimy tasting, nothing like his mother’s. Congee was usually flavored with pork or chicken, but such luxuries seemed obscene now. After swallowing a few more mouthfuls, Tom looked up and saw the two little girls staring wide-eyed at him. He knew the type – child laborers who toiled away at the cotton mills like the one they’d just escaped. Their mother probably slaved away in a factory by day and pimped herself out as a street walker at night, just to make ends meet. A
nd their father? Probably a coolie rickshaw puller or day laborer who found himself in the wrong street when the bombs started falling.
Tom extended his bowl of congee and – after a moment’s hesitation – one of the girls took it and began slurping it down. Mei-chen followed and handed her congee over to the second girl. The mother nodded and blubbered her gratitude in rapid Shanghainese.
Tom smiled and ignored an irritated rumble in his stomach. He searched around for something to take his mind off food and found a discarded issue of the Shanghai Evening Post strewn out on a nearby crate. It was an extra edition, put out immediately after hostilities began. Skimming the main article, his heart sank.
“What’s wrong?” Mei-chen asked in English.
“Listen to this,” Tom replied. “‘Admiral Shiozawa stated that the Japanese Special Naval Landing Forces were being sent into Chapei to restore order and protect Japanese civilians.’ Just as I thought!” he scoffed. “Apparently, those protests gave the Mikado’s boys just the excuse they needed to start a war.”
“Are you blaming the Chinese for being attacked?” Mei-chen snapped.
Tom tossed the Shanghai Evening Post aside and glanced over at the two little girls, wolfing down the bowls of congee.
“There are enough hotheaded idiots in every country,” he said. “They start the wars and everyone else suffers.”
Mei-chen said nothing and sank deeper into his overcoat – the same coat she’d just murdered a man with. Still, if not for her, that brute Sergeant would have snapped his neck. That was twice she’d saved his life. But if not for her in the first place, he wouldn’t be in this mess. However – regardless of her treachery – Club Twilight would have been destroyed regardless. But maybe Charles Whitfield would still be alive if she hadn’t…
Shanghai Twilight Page 17
