Shanghai Redemption

by Qiu Xiaolong

  “Private clubs?”

  “Not open to the public like this one. They offer absolute security. Each floor has its own private garage that leads directly to a particular floor offering all the services imaginable.”

  “Really!” he said, thinking of the vacation Gu had suggested to him.

  “Have you heard of the Obama Club?”

  “What?”

  “Some rich female clients fancy black studs…”

  “Have you been to it?”

  “A friend of mine worked at such a place in Sheshan. And she saw a number of untouchable elites there, including the one at the top.”

  “Sheshan in Shanghai—there are a lot of villas there,” Chen said, thinking. He knew he had heard something about that area lately, but he couldn’t remember what.

  “Of course, not everybody is there to take advantage of the available services. They might just want to meet someone in private to discuss important business. No one knows.” She added, “But you have nothing to worry about here. Our club is connected in both the white and the black ways.”

  It was then that Chen caught a glimpse of a black-clad man loitering near the hotel’s side entrance. He was raising a cell phone to his mouth. Something about the man struck Chen as suspicious. Was it something real or just Chen’s high-strung nerves?

  “Thank you for all that you have told me, but I’m not ready to go into your club yet. I think I’ll go and eat something first.”

  “We serve dinner at the club too.”

  “I like the street food in Suzhou.”

  It was a lame excuse, but it was nonetheless a true one.

  When he looked over again, the black-attired man had already vanished.

  “Here is my cell phone number,” she said, handing him a card. She was probably tired of being a consultant, even if she was paid not too badly. “I’m usually here a little after one. Give me a call, and I could come to your room. For a good man like you, I won’t charge you any extra.”

  “Thank you,” he said, slipping the card into his pants pocket. “I’ll think about it.”

  “Think about it indeed,” she said, touching his cheek with the tip of her slender finger.

  He stepped back and then fled.

  Outside the hotel and across the street, he saw a hot pot eatery named Little Lamb and a Hunan cuisine restaurant with young waitresses clad in Xiang style standing on the sidewalk, soliciting customers. There was also an American steakhouse just a stone’s throw away, sporting a large bilingual sign. The neon lights flashed and reflashed delicious temptations. Neither of them looked too bad, but to his surprise, he didn’t see a single restaurant offering authentic Suzhou cuisine. It would have been fantastic if the noodle restaurant were open for business at this time of day.

  Another luxury car pulled into the hotel, honking and rolling in through the side entrance.

  A thought struck him. “The restaurant is also near a club that I’ve been to quite a few times,” Qian had said. She’d been to this very club frequently, which wasn’t surprising, given the job she’d offered him. He wondered if she’d be able to tell him something about this nightclub—or, more importantly, about its connection to the one in Shanghai.

  It was a long shot, but it was better than nothing.

  He pulled out his cell phone, but he changed his mind as a motorcycle rumbled past.

  Instead, he headed over to a phone booth at the corner of a side street.

  NINE

  OLD HUNTER FELT LIKE a cop once again, in the middle of an investigation. He strode out of the subway in Pudong, holding a city map in his hand.

  To an old man from Puxi, which was west of the Huangpu River, the area of Pudong, east of the river, was almost an unexplored world. The new subway system hardly helped. The underground hub was a maze, with confusing signs about line transferring and retransferring between Puxi and Pudong. It was supposed to be convenient, but to Old Hunter, it was not.

  In the early eighties, he had had an opportunity to move to Pudong, but he chose not to go because of a then-popular saying: “A bed in Puxi is far preferable to a room in Pudong.” At the time, Pudong was basically farmland. Since then, however, it had undergone an unbelievable transformation. Now, featuring some of the fanciest commercial and residential developments, Pudong was almost unrecognizable. The old saying about changes in the world came to mind, “as dramatic as from the azure sea to the mulberry field.”

  He plodded among the unfamiliar streets, rubbing his eyes, studying the signs and comparing them to the map in his hand, which proved to be of little use. It had been printed two or three years earlier and was already out of date.

  But he knew how desperate the situation was. He understood why the ex–chief inspector had turned to him for help rather than to his son, Detective Yu. As a retired cop, he probably wouldn’t be noticed. And the crisis was escalating. Soon Yu could be involved in it, too.

  “You’re a really experienced cop, but you can’t be too cautious.” That’s what Chen had said at the end of their conversation in the teahouse.

  Experienced or not, Old Hunter would have to come up with an excuse to approach Tang, the cop from the Sex Crimes Squad. He was pretty sure he’d have no problem. Before retirement, Old Hunter had rarely worked with Tang, but there was still a common bond between the two. Despite their good, hard work, somehow both of them remained at the bottom of the ladder.

  After several wrong turns, Old Hunter succeeded in spotting Jufeng Road, and from there, the sign for Carrefour Supermarket told him that Tang’s home was close. Old Hunter pulled out his phone.

  “Hi, Tang, it’s Old Hunter.”

  “Oh, such a surprise! What favorable wind has brought you over to Pudong today?”

  “I’m on an errand here for my part-time job. I just walked out of the subway, got lost—guess what—and I’m now near the Carrefour. You once told me that your home was close to the supermarket, and fortunately, I have your number stored in my phone. What about joining me for a cup of tea?”

  “You’re still thinking of me, Old Hunter. I’m flattered. Stay in front of the supermarket and I’ll come find you. There’s a neighborhood recreation center just about a block away, and we can get tea there.”

  Tang appeared in less than five minutes. He was a gaunt man in his midfifties, with his hair streaked white and with a slight suggestion of shuffle in his steps. Tang was pleased by the unannounced visit.

  Instead of the neighborhood center Tang had suggested, Old Hunter dragged him to a street eatery about a stone’s throw from the supermarket.

  “This is still a developing area,” Tang said. “It’s too far away from Lujiazui, the center of Pudong, and there aren’t many decent restaurants here. Still, it’s much better than when we first moved here.”

  “That was when the state housing assignment was still in effect, right?”

  “That’s right—so the apartments here can’t compare to the new ones people are buying, but I still count myself lucky. We couldn’t afford an apartment in today’s market, and with the new subway, this area may see some improvement soon.” Tang said. Then he added shamefacedly, “To tell the truth, my place is overcrowded, now that my daughter has just moved back in with her crying baby. That’s why I didn’t invite you home.”

  “You don’t have to feel alone in that, Tang. I’m still living in one room at that old shikumen house, with my old wife bedridden. My two daughters and their children are all squeezed together in the same wing.”

  “But this street stand is run by provincial sisters and is nothing more than a coal stove with benches and tables. I don’t think—”

  “But it’s inexpensive, and it’s my treat.”

  On the recommendation of a “provincial sister” waitress, Old Hunter ordered a small tableful of food—red-pepper-oil-immersed catfish in an earthen pot, fried frog legs with tender green beans, steamed stinking tofu on top of wild mushrooms, grilled lamb cubes, and cold shepherd’s purse blossoms m
ixed with dried shrimp and new sesame oil.

  The waitress, who spoke with a strong Anhui accent, trotted back and forth from the wok, carrying steaming hot dishes stacked on her right arm and two bottles of Qingdao beer in her other hand.

  “People have been talking about toxic food, polluted water, gutter oil, and whatnot. The country is really going to the dogs. But I’m in my seventies, already a man of longevity in Confucius’s time,” Old Hunter said, putting a piece of hot stinking tofu in the hot sauce for himself and tearing up a large piece of fish meat for Tang. “And you’re almost in your sixties, too. So why worry?”

  Old Hunter had assumed the role that had earned him his second nickname, Suzhou Opera Singer. Suzhou opera was known for frequent digressions, sometimes with false surprises or suspense at the end of an episode to lure the audience back for the next. There was a reason, however, that he had adopted that style. It helped with his police work. In interviews, people wouldn’t easily guess what he was really pushing for, and, as a result, they frequently came out with what he needed.

  “You have ordered too much food. It’ll be a waste if we can’t finish everything.”

  “If we don’t finish it all, we can box the rest. Your home is just around the corner, isn’t it? At the agency I’m working for, they have some quite lucrative cases. What I’m being paid for today’s errand, more than covers our lunch.”

  “That’s quite a lot.”

  “At my agency job, in two weeks—working only two days a week—I make more than my pension.”

  “Wow, tell me more about this line of work. I’m retiring next year, and with my son laid off, unable to take care of himself, and my daughter divorced and squeezed back with us, I need to find a job like yours.”

  “Believe it or not, I landed the job because of Chief Inspector Chen.”

  “How?” Tang asked with the cup suspended in the air.

  “Chen is a good man. I was once made a special consultant to the traffic control office because of him, remember?” Old Hunter said. He was watching for a change in Tang’s expression, but he didn’t see any.

  “Yes, Chen served as the acting director of that office for a short while,” Tang responded, his tongue not beer-loosened yet.

  “Zhang Zhang was working there as a clerk then. About two years ago, he left and started the PI agency. It really is a niche market—take today’s job, for example. A rich woman wants us to find evidence against her cheating husband, and she offers to pay twenty thousand yuan—all in cash. What I need to do is to get pictures of her husband in a notorious foot-washing salon—in the company of a half-naked girl.”

  “That’s not bad—I mean the pay,” Tang said, helping himself to a spoonful of the green shepherd’s purse blossoms mixed with dried shrimp.

  “From time to time, we also have to go to one of those fancier nightclubs. There are so many Big Bucks and high officials there, as your squad knows only too well. Oh, I just heard a new Q and A joke. In today’s China, who is the most formidable force in exposing corrupt officials? Their wives and ernai! It’s so true. Of course, it’s because they are desperate and capable of doing anything. That’s why it’s such a profitable market for us. Just the other day I went to a notorious nightclub on Wuning Road. You must know it. It’s called … damn it, my old memory really sucks. What’s the name of it?”

  This story was not entirely fiction, improvised for Tang’s benefit. Old Hunter, in his work as a PI, had visited some of those nightclubs, though not the one on Wuning Road.

  “Those notorious nightclubs,” Tang said, echoing Old Hunter’s phrase, his face slightly flushed from the beer. “You’re right about that. My job takes me to those places frequently. But there’s one difference. At your agency, you don’t have to worry about politics. Not so for us.”

  Tang didn’t go on, staring instead into the empty cup before him. Old Hunter signaled the waitress to bring over two more Qingdao, and said, “Anything can be political in today’s China. It’s really too much for me. There are so many unheard of or unimaginable practices going on in those places. I feel so ancient.”

  “The government wants to give the appearance that we’re fighting against corruption,” Tang said, jumping back into the conversation with growing enthusiasm. “So the squad puts on the occasional show. But we have to move carefully. I’ve learned that lesson the hard way.”

  “Really?”

  “I was almost kicked off the squad for asking about a possible connection between a nightclub and someone in the city government. Party Secretary Li flew into a rage. I would have been fired on the spot, had all the squad members not begged him for my sake. As a man getting close to retirement, do I have any choice?”

  “No. No, you don’t. Not when jackals and wolves run amuck in this country. That’s one of the reason I’m so into Suzhou opera. It represents a different world—that of law, of justice, and of everything you can’t find in the real world today.” Old Hunter continued, draining his cup, “Oh, yes, I remember. That nightclub on Wuning Road is the Heavenly World. By the way, there was some disturbance there a couple of days ago. Have you heard of anything about it?”

  “How did you know?”

  “I went there that night, but long after everything had happened. I was there after eleven thirty, and people were talking about something like a police raid. But apparently no one was caught. No one seemed to have any idea about what really happened, so of course it was all anyone could talk about.”

  “An unexpected disturbance at a place like that should actually be expected.” Tang’s answer was curt.

  A seasoned cop like Tang would not let his falcon loose without spotting a rabbit first. Old Hunter, sighing inaudibly, leaned over to pop another bottle of beer.

  “I used to be so proud of my job. The People’s police, the proletarian dictatorship, and all that. But now I’m too old to be befuddled by the editorials in the People’s Daily. What’s the point of us working our butts off for those fattened red rats? At the agency, at least I earn my money without getting involved in dirty politics.”

  “But I still work at the bureau. So does your son, Detective Yu,” Tang said slowly. “He was the longtime partner of Chief Inspector Chen. Have you heard anything from him lately?”

  That sounded like a probe. Old Hunter chewed on a frog leg with his remaining good teeth before responding, “Nothing. Chen knows better than to contact Yu with the way things are now. When I think about Chen’s trouble, I can’t help but feel even more justified in taking on the PI job. Let me make a suggestion, Tang.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Why don’t you start working for the agency now? Just part-time. Over the weekend, let’s say. A simple visit to a nightclub could fetch you a thousand yuan.”

  “That’s really something.”

  “Start working on the side now, and by the time you’re retired, you’ll be an experienced PI. A number of agencies will be interested in you. I know a few people in this line of work, and I’ll introduce you to them.”

  “That’s fantastic. You would be doing me a huge favor, Old Hunter.”

  “If we old-timers don’t help one another,” Old Hunter said after a deliberate pause, “who will?”

  “Exactly. For old-timers’ sake,” Tang said, raising the cup. “Now, what were we talking about before you opened this bottle? Oh yes, the disturbance at that nightclub. Believe it or not, I was there that night. We were on some sort of a special mission. It was one of the raids I don’t know anything about, either before or after.”

  “It sounds just like a suspenseful Suzhou opera. Go ahead, Tang. Now I’m all ears.”

  “In our squad, it’s no secret that these raids are often performed for political reasons. For example, when people start loudly complaining about the ‘moral landslide,’ or when there happens to be a political campaign to fight sex crime, then the number of raids our squad is set out on increases. It’s more like a show than it is police work. How could those sal
ons and clubs have mushroomed up in the city otherwise? Here, in our undeveloped neighborhood, if you walk along Wulian Road for ten minutes, you’ll see four or five Wenzhou Massage Palaces or Yangzhou Foot Paradises.”

  “In Socialism with Chinese characteristics, that’s definitely one of the characteristics.”

  “Since these places can be very connected politically, it’s not uncommon that we don’t know anything about a raid beforehand. Ji, the head of our squad, frequently is the only one with any information, and even that may be no more than some vague clue about the target. It was like that this time. Without any notice, we were sent to a city government office, where a gray-haired man pulled Ji aside and whispered instructions in his ear. Outside, there was a black van waiting for us. The driver was a stranger, who drove in silence the whole way. It wasn’t until the van pulled up on Wuning Road that I realized why everything was so secretive.”

  “Why, Tang?”

  “It was the neon sign of the Heavenly World. It was the one place we never dreamed of touching. There are so many stories about the owner being connected to the very top. The government might occasionally slap at a fly, but not at a tiger like that. So I was excited that the city government was finally determined to crack it.

  “But then we were told not to rush in but to maintain silence instead. A manager came out to discuss something with Ji, and then he led us to the elevator in the back. In silence, and taking care not to disturb any of the clubgoers, we were taken straight to a large luxurious suite on the second floor. So the Heavenly World is still untouchable except for—”

  “Except for one man who was there. You’ve got it right, Tang. Sorry for the interruption. Please go on.”

  “When we got to where we were going, it was a large suite that was decorated for some event. It looked like a party had just finished. There were drinks and snacks still scattered around, a long table with books on it, and some chairs here and there, but there was no one in the room. Then a faint sound came from an attached room. We burst in on two girls sprawled on a large bed. One had greenish paint on her bare breasts, and something like whiskers painted on her face. The other was stark naked, with only a towel wrapped about her groin. They were shocked speechless at first, and then became hysterical and started screaming. The manager seemed to be no less astonished. It took him several minutes to sort things out with the sobbing, stuttering girls.