Shanghai Twilight

by Matthew Legare

  Ono nodded and opened up his mouth to speak, revealing rows of cracked teeth. “Yes...I would,” he coughed, “…find messages underneath the table…”

  Well, that explained why he always sat at the same spot. But in his confession was Tom’s salvation.

  “So you admit, Mr. Ono, that you never saw me give you the messages. For all you know, someone else could have been your contact?”

  The denial sent an irritated chill through the gangsters. Even Ono looked disappointed.

  “Doesn’t matter,” Feng snapped. “He received the messages at your club, Tommy. As far as I’m concerned, you’re an accomplice. As they say in your country, ‘possession is ninety percent of the law.’”

  “That’s ‘nine-tenths of the law.’ And as far as I’m concerned, you could have tortured him into saying whatever you wanted,” Tom said, bracing his frame. “After all the money I’ve given the Nationalist Government, you really think I would spy for Japan?”

  Feng hissed out a contemptuous scoff. “You might look like us but you’re really an American underneath that Chinese skin! And Yankees have no loyalty except to money.”

  “Let me speak to your uncle. I’ll explain myself to him.”

  “Oh, you will Tommy, you will. The Grandmaster demanded to see you in person to explain your treachery. But first,” the gangster turned to the handcuffed prisoner, “I have a spy to execute. You’re entitled to a martial firing squad, Mr. Ono. How does that sound?”

  The bruised and battered Nipponese spy stiffened his frame into an erect posture. Somber acceptance shone in his eyes. He looked less like chopped up roast beef and more like a proud patriot. Every spy knew that a bullet awaited them should they fail. From Mata Hari to Goro Ono, such grim fortitude was almost admirable.

  “I will go to my death as a true servant of the Emperor,” Ono said, his gory face alighting with patriotic zeal. “Tenno Heika Banzai! Banzai! Banz—”

  Feng’s hand dove into his jacket, pulled out a Smith & Wesson revolver, and pressed it against Ono’s forehead. The Japanese fell silent, closing his eyes in preparation. With its gleaming silver barrel and polished handle, the weapon befitted a Texas Ranger more than a Chinese gangster. Chambering a round, the brat’s face glowed with sadistic glee.

  But his finger loosened around the trigger. The gun dropped to Feng’s side and he snapped his fingers.

  “Since Tommy is here, let’s use his gun,” Feng suggested with an ominous laugh, tucking the revolver back into his jacket. One of the henchmen lumbered into the darkness and returned with an enormous firearm – a Thompson submachine gun. From its bulbous drum to its sleek wooden foregrip, the weapon emanated dread and menace, like a metallic demon.

  Grabbing the Thompson with both hands, Feng walked to the back wall. The other three gangsters stepped back, but Tom stood transfixed in horror. Feng aimed the submachine gun straight at Ono and fired an inferno of bullets and flame. Bursts of lead ripped through Ono’s body, sending small eruptions of blood and flesh up into the air. What remained of the Japanese spy’s bloodied face was torn apart as the lethal spray pulverized his nose, jaw, and eyeballs into pink and red pulp. The onslaught struck him with such force that it knocked the chair over, smashing the wood into splinters that mixed together with the crimson gore.

  The shooting stopped, replaced by Feng’s heavy breathing. The deep breaths lapsed into a fit of high-pitched giggles.

  “Tommy gun…like you, Tommy! Get it?”

  The other gangsters laughed alongside Feng, like cackling hyenas. Tom stared down at the mass of red mush that had once been Goro Ono and saw his future. A wave of nausea almost overtook him but he steadied himself against a nearby crate of opium. Saving face was more important than ever now.

  “Very funny,” was all he could muster.

  *****

  Feng Lung-wei led the entourage back up the stairs and into the opium den. The explosive volley of bullets hadn’t disturbed the occupants from their drug-induced slumber. Most stared into nothingness but a few glanced over to Tom with empty, languid eyes. He looked away, over to Feng, who looked like an otherworldly ghost in this haze of opium smoke. Fitting, since there were rumors that Feng Lung-wei had been possessed by evil spirits as a boy.

  Such superstitions still ran rampant in China but after what he’d just witnessed, Tom reconsidered their validity. Gruesome brutality was a common sight in the trenches but this was something different altogether. The white-bone demons that killed and devoured the flesh of travelers would have been more merciful.

  They walked across the opium den and to the door on the opposite side. Without knocking, Feng opened it and led them into a spacious chamber, lined with frilled pillows. Two women – one redheaded Occidental and one raven-haired Oriental – lay about half-naked. The stupor of opium had turned their pretty faces into semi-catatonic masks. Tom had seen them before – Feng’s Russian and Chinese mistresses. He realized that they were standing in Feng Lung-wei’s private chambers.

  Two white men stood with crossed arms at the far end of the chamber. Although they wore gray three-piece suits like respectable businessmen, their thick beards and scarred faces identified them as former Cossacks. Millions of Russians had fled their homeland after the Bolsheviks seized power, finding employment in Shanghai as prostitutes, mercenaries, and bodyguards.

  The Cossacks flanked a throne-like chair at the far end, ornamented with sculptures of golden dragons. Only someone like Feng would own something so garish, but it was Tu Yueh-sheng who currently occupied it. An elegant silk changshan hung off of his wiry body and he beckoned Tom closer with a claw-like hand. A long, sharp pinky nail was visible, symbolizing his status like the mandarins of old.

  Thick lips sat at the bottom of his long face while slit-like eyes looked Tom up and down. Two large ears hung off of the side of the gangster chieftain’s head, which earned him the almost comical nickname ‘Big-Eared Tu.’ The family resemblance to Feng was strong in that regard. Although Tu was only twelve years older than Tom, there was something ancient and eternal about the Grandmaster of the Green Gang, like China itself.

  But as Tom entered, his once benefactor had taken on an even more sinister appearance than he’d thought possible. Tu Yueh-sheng was like Al Capone and Fu Manchu rolled into one.

  “Welcome, Lai Huang-fu,” the gangster lord purred. “Any last words?”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “Yes, I do have something to say, oh illustrious one,” Tom said.

  Ignoring the fear that weakened his knees, he walked toward Tu and presented himself with a supplicating bow. Ever since the establishment of the Republic in 1911, bowing was reserved for only formal occasions. But Tom knew that despite his support of Kuomintang, Tu Yueh-sheng was still a traditional Confucian at heart. He’d have to pull out all the stops if he wanted to ingratiate himself to the Green Gang one last time. Straightening up, the Grandmaster of Shanghai fixed Tom with an almost satisfied look.

  “Thank you for meeting me here, Uncle,” Tom said in Shanghainese. He used the familiar Chinese term to address an elder male, regardless of any actual family connection. “I realize how insulting these paltry quarters must be for one so high!”

  That earned another pleased expression from Tu. He cast a glimpse over to Feng Lung-wei, standing off to the side, who burned with undisguised fury. It was a rarity to see the lord of the Green Gang outside of his sprawling mansion on Route Doumer. Actually commandeering Feng’s private room and opium den intoned that Tu had taken a personal interest in Tom’s fate.

  “I had to hear Ono’s confession with my own ears,” Tu began, “and I would never allow a Japanese devil to set foot in my mansion. I am disheartened to bring you here, my American nephew. Out of sentimentality, I allowed you to operate in Chapei at a much lower protection fee than other nightclubs in Shanghai.”

  “As long as I stayed away from opium and gambling, since they are your domain, oh illustrious Grandmaster. And I have done so!”

&
nbsp; “That may be true, but a Japanese spy names you as his collaborator! Aiding the dwarf bandits is a far more serious offense. How do you answer these accusations?”

  “Uncle, I deny such slander against my good name. I would never aid Japan.”

  Tu grunted. “Regardless, he used your nightclub as a rendezvous, picking up and dropping off secret documents to his contact. The Jap told me everything just before you arrived. Although he didn’t name anyone specific, we believe that he is in league with Commander Jiro Fukuzaki, a Naval intelligence officer stationed here in Shanghai.”

  “He won’t be saying much of anything now,” Feng said with a giggle. Tu’s narrow eyes widened enough to shoot his nephew a silencing stare.

  “I’m disappointed, my American nephew,” Tu continued, shaking his head. “I thought you were a true son of China, despite your foreign birth.”

  Always the foreigner. Tom needed to think fast or risk losing his only potential ally. Ono’s massacred body flashed in his mind, leaving him light-headed. He balled his fist and summoned what strength remained. Above all, he couldn’t lose face or show weakness in front of this man. When Chiang Kai-shek first took power in 1927, he relied on Tu Yueh-sheng and the Green Gang to orchestrate the slaughter of Communists rivals in Shanghai. Hundreds of men and women were gunned down in a bloodbath that made the Saint Valentine’s Day Massacre look like a church picnic.

  “Ono could have been lying to protect his true contact,” Tom suggested. “After all, the Japanese are very loyal.”

  “Something you know nothing about, Yankee,” Feng hissed.

  “Be silent!” Tu roared, causing Feng to blanch slightly. Turning to Tom, he said, “Generalissimo Chiang has given us the important duty of uprooting spies in Shanghai, be they Red or Japanese. The Green Gang has become the unofficial secret service of the Nationalist Government. That being said, Goro Ono was suspected of espionage for some time now, so I sent Feng to abduct him. Sure enough, he was found departing from Club Twilight.”

  The gangster lord slid a slender hand into his voluminous sleeve and pulled out a folded sheet of paper.

  “In his possession were secret documents, detailing the American Government’s views on the recent conflicts in the Far East. It even elaborates on the probable reaction they would have if a full-scale Sino-Japanese War erupted.”

  “What does it say?” Tom asked after a moment.

  “It’s in English, but my nephew can read them.”

  Tu beckoned Feng Lung-wei closer and handed the paper over. All too late did Tom remember that despite his grandiose power, Tu Yueh-sheng was barely literate in any language.

  Feng unfolded the paper and read aloud in English, “‘In accordance with the doctrine proclaimed by US Secretary of State Stimson, the United States Government will not recognize any territorial changes in China by force and will denounce anything that might impair the existing Open Door policy. However, the United States will remain neutral in any conflict between the Chinese Republic and the Empire of Japan.’”

  Tom clapped and said, “Bravo, Feng. Those pulp rags must be paying off. You sounded like a real Yankee Doodle Dandy.”

  Feng growled and replied back in Shanghainese, “Make jokes all you want, but I’ve already translated these for my uncle.”

  Tom ignored the brat and said, “May I read the documents for myself, Uncle?”

  Tu nodded and ordered Feng to hand them over. The two pages were typewritten in English on thick, high-quality paper. The type used in a business or government office. The contents revealed even more. Everybody knew that America would stay out of a Sino-Japanese War, but there was an air of authenticity to the documents that the average man might not have been privy to.

  Even more concerning was that the papers went on to detail the exact strength and size of the US Marines stationed in Shanghai, along with the specs for all American Naval gunboats that patrolled the Yangtze River. In the event of a Japanese attack on Shanghai or a new Boxer Rebellion, these forces could be used – the documents argued – to safeguard US business interests until reinforcements arrived from the Philippines.

  Although it lacked any stationary from the United States Consulate, the information had to have come from there. Charles Whitfield’s face flashed before Tom’s eyes. He almost laughed.

  Charles Whitfield, a Japanese spy? A preposterous thought! Whitfield was not only his friend but an ally of the Chinese people. How could the son of Christian missionaries be a spy? Still, he was the only officer from the US Consulate who regularly visited Club Twilight. The thought lingered, gnawing away at Tom’s brain like termites.

  “Want to confess, Tommy? It’ll save us all a lot of time,” Feng said, jerking him out of his thoughts.

  Ignoring the taunt, Tom kept his focus on Tu. “Uncle, you know that I am a loyal Kuomintang member and supporter of Chiang Kai-shek. They are the only hope for a strong, united China. If I were a spy, then why would I donate so much of my wealth to the only government that could stand up to Japanese Imperialism?”

  Despite his leathery face remaining placid, a twinkle shone in Tu Yueh-sheng’s narrow eyes.

  “However, if this treachery did occur in my nightclub then it is my responsibility to unmask the true spy. Please, give me a chance to prove my innocence. That’s all I ask!” Tom followed up his request with another bow.

  A cruel laughter punctured the air.

  “Uncle Tu, do not believe this foreign devil,” Feng said. “His loyalty is to his family in America, not to us or China!”

  Tu’s eyes darted between his nephew and Tom. With this bloodthirsty brat demanding Tom’s execution, Tu had little choice or risk losing face in front of his own men. However, the mere fact that he had met with Tom in person signified a deep conflict within the Grandmaster of crime. His affectionate title of ‘American nephew’ hinted that he preferred Tom to his actual vile relatives.

  “Lai Huang-fu, not only have you always been on time with your payments to the Green Gang,” Tu said, holding up a languid hand. “But you have also been most generous to the Chinese Republic and our great leader, Generalissimo Chiang. I do not want to believe these horrible accusations, but as mentioned, you must shoulder the responsibility. I will give you forty-eight hours to produce the real spy. If you cannot…”

  “Then rat-tat-tat, Tommy!” Feng said, snickering.

  Execution by submachine gun would be a merciful death. The Green Gang was infamous for cutting every tendon of their victims, leaving them quivering, helpless piles of flesh. Tom forced a grateful smile.

  “Of course, I understand. Thank you, oh illustrious one! Thank you!”

  With a wave of his claw-like hand, the matter was concluded. One of the Cossack bodyguards fetched Tu a long pipe and presented it with reverence. Feng Lung-wei gestured for Tom to follow him out of the chambers. As he walked by, the girls followed him with glazed eyes. With one motion, the Chinese whore dragged a finger across her throat.

  Seeing the gesture, Feng snorted and whispered, “It won’t be that quick, Tommy. I promise you.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The Mercedes jerked to a halt in front of Club Twilight, flooding the vehicle with a neon glow. Red and yellow lights danced on Feng Lung-wei’s youthful face, giving him the appearance of an enormous firefly. Sitting beside Tom in the back seat, the gangster gazed outside the window in transfixed awe.

  “I’ll admit Tommy, your nightclub is the beat’s knees…did I say that right?”

  “Bee’s knees,” Tom corrected.

  “Ah yes,” Feng said. “Despite everything that’s happened between us, I have always had the utmost admiration for Club Twilight. I just want you to know that.”

  “I’m touched.”

  “Too bad it’s a nest of spies,” Feng snapped. In the neon lights, the gangster’s face now resembled a red-faced mogwai demon, snarling in rage. “You may have fooled Uncle Tu but I have never trusted you. No matter how much money you donate and how fluently you spea
k our language, you’re just a Yankee at heart.”

  That was the last straw. The constant threats and insults kindled an angry fire deep inside Tom. It had been there all his life, igniting in brief yet destructive explosions. If he only had two days left to live, he wouldn’t hold his tongue any longer around this two-bit gunman.

  “Listen you turtle’s egg,” Tom said in Shanghainese, using the closest Chinese expression to ‘bastard.’ “I’ll find the real spy and deliver him to Uncle Tu gift-wrapped. Now go crawl back to that garbage can you call an opium den.”

  That seemed to strike a nerve, twisting Feng’s face into an even angrier scowl. “You have forty-eight hours, Tommy,” he responded in English. “Tick tock. Oh, and don’t bother trying to leave Shanghai. We’ll be watching you.”

  An understatement. The Green Gang controlled the docks so escape by sea wasn’t an option. Taking the train would probably mean being spotted by one of their many spies. Not that he planned on running away. Thomas Lai was no Japanese spy and he would prove it or die trying. Without a word, Tom exited the Mercedes and slammed the door behind him.

  Tom paused near the entrance underneath the neon lights that spelled out “Club Twilight,” soaking up the warmth. He waited for the Mercedes to drive away and merge with the steady flow of rickshaws and automobiles. Free of Feng’s lurking presence, Tom pressed onward into the club and gave his hat and coat a nearby lobby boy. He took a deep breath and walked into the main hall, like a king returning to his castle.

  The crowds had thinned but a respectable number of men slow-danced with his taxi girls while the band played “Limehouse Blues.” Mei-chen was no longer with that British sailor but now danced with what looked like a Chinese soldier. They contrasted each other like night and day; Mei-chen in her fiery red cheongsam and black leather gloves, the soldier in the same blue-gray uniform that Captain Tung wore. Although, Tom knew for sure that he wasn’t an officer, since he looked no older than sixteen. A boy soldier on leave before the storm broke. Tom sympathized.