French Concession

by Xiao Bai

  No big deal, he looked calm and hadn’t been drinking. But he was uneasy, and the policemen gave him an unusually thorough search. This wasn’t the usual Chinese policeman with too much time on his hands deciding to give someone a hard time, a Frenchman taking it out on a Chinese man, or even a regular cop just going through the motions of a search.

  Luckily he never carried anything important with him. But the search made him so tense that his back muscles ached. Maybe it was because it was windy and the moon was blotted out by clouds. He thought he saw a shadow behind the tree on the other side of the longtang. He stopped, lit a cigarette, cocked his head, and cupped his hands around the cigarette to keep the wind from putting it out. A silvery moonlight filtered through the knotted branches of the parasol tree and lit up the dark shape under the tree—it was only a pushcart. In the moonlight, even the words painted on the pushcart were legible: SOYBEAN MILK FORMULA, which the Kuomintang Municipal Government’s Department of Health was promoting as being nutritious and cheap. As he slipped into the narrow longtang, he heard a rustle behind him and spun around. It was a wild cat, which stopped to stare at him for a moment, two beads of green gleaming in the dark, before it vanished.

  Ch’i’s expression when she opened the door surprised him. He couldn’t tell whether she was startled or eager to see him. Were they both feeling nervous, or was it just him?

  But as soon as he went inside, the scene that welcomed him made him relax. A large bowl of congee and two plates of pickled vegetables lay on the table, and Ch’i’s floral curtains kept out the draught. She took off all her clothes, except a tiny bodice. Squatting behind the bed, she pissed and washed her behind.

  He sat by the table, smoking, and when she was ready, she came over to undo his buttons. Her shoulders smelled of jasmine.

  He decided he had gotten himself worked up over nothing.

  He would smoke a cigarette before dinner. Taking the cushion from his own chair and putting it on the seat next to him, he patted it to signify that Ch’i should keep him company instead of getting into bed. Who knew that Ch’i of Fu-chih Alley had a meek side. “I always thought you sit like you’re a tycoon,” she had once told him. When he was about to laugh out loud, she said: “Then I realized you weren’t a tycoon—you were a hit man.”

  Local newspaper headlines always gave him a false sense of security. Police Raids Chingho Road Saloon after Bartender Seduces Owner’s Wife. The subtitle was Boss Finds Lover under Bed, Adulterous Couple Arrested.

  Brothel in Tung-sheng Hotel Fined.

  Chief Culprit in Wang Yün-wu Kidnapping Executed Yesterday.

  Rue Amiral Bayle Gunman Shot Dead by Police.

  He occasionally glanced at the newspaper as he ate his congee, barely noticing Ch’i. She was just like a pet dog. She wouldn’t mind. All women are obsessed with some man, and besides, Ku had saved her life. A gang of men had come after her for adding an extra zero on the end of a check. If they had asked nicely, she might just have given the money back. But they had bullied her, and in a rage, she threatened to expose that man in the tabloids and humiliate him. The next thing she knew, his men were storming into her apartment, and if Ku hadn’t been there, they would have killed her on the spot. If he hadn’t happened to be in Fu-chih Alley—and she had wondered for the past eight months why he happened to be there—they could have disfigured her with limewater, or stuffed her in a sack and thrown her into the Whampoa. But he had rapped his pistol on the table and forced the men to negotiate with him. As they talked, one of them had crept up behind him with a chef’s knife, but he had gotten up suddenly, pushing his chair back and tripping the man over, and then felling him with a well-aimed punch to the chin. At that they had said: “Don’t mess with us and we won’t mess with you!” Then they had stormed out.

  That was why she did everything he asked. She knew he liked watching her, so she would walk around naked and fix him tea as though the June night were not cold at all, as though she were a White Russian prostitute. She hid a gun under her mattress because he asked her to. If his life depended on it, then so did hers, and if it made him feel safer then she would feel safer too. She could give him a sense of familiarity, but she also knew how to make him feel special—when he was depressed, she would pant harder and shriek louder to boost his ego. She had taken the gangs a message because he wanted her to, although he knew Morris Jr.’s bloodshot eyes gave her the creeps.

  Ku got under the blanket, and pressed his stomach up against Ch’i’s cold bum through the thin cotton blanket and shirt. He waited for her to turn around and tug mischievously at his pants as though she couldn’t wait, which was part of their usual routine. Her being naughty gave him an excuse to pretend he despised her, but the more he did that while pleasuring her, the more she enjoyed it.

  His loosened trouser band lay twisted on his stomach like a caterpillar. She was stroking him, but her mind seemed to be elsewhere. She opened her mouth, as if to say something. She pinched him too hard by mistake, making him gasp in pain. He caught her by the hair and said: “What’s the matter with you today?”

  “They came here looking for you,” she squealed.

  “When? How many of them?”

  “Just after dark. Three. They looked everywhere—in the closet and under the bed.”

  He sat up and reached under the mattress for the gun. There it was. He felt better.

  “And what did they say?”

  “A lanky man with a scar on his cheek slapped me in the face!” She told him the fact she considered most important first. Her hand brushed her cheek, as though to indicate the slap, or the scar.

  “What did they say?”

  “They said they would be back.”

  His back ached. He was nervous and angry. He turned over, gripped her wrist, and reached one hand under the mattress toward that cold piece of metal. He could feel his armpits sweating, and the sweat ran down his ribs to his belly, dripping onto Ch’i’s bodice. He ripped it off as if he were ripping off the scales of a carp to reveal its white belly.

  His fingers were stretched taut and pressed tightly together. Her strained vocal cords let out a long moan like the cry of a seagull on the river at night. That was how they missed the rapping at the door.

  The strange noises outside had been going on for a while. Heavy, sloppy footsteps on the stairs, someone knocking and then battering at the door. By the time he finally turned to look, it was too late. There were two men in the room, and one standing at the doorway between the sitting room and the bedroom. Between them they had an axe and two guns, a Browning in the room, and a Mauser at the doorway.

  The Mauser straddled the doorway, one foot inside the room and one out. He pursed his lips and brandished his gun. Ku could see that it was set to fire a single round.

  He ignored the two men in the room, and focused on the Mauser. He wanted to get out of bed.

  “Don’t move,” the Mauser said, pointing at him. Then he motioned to Ch’i: “You, get off the bed.”

  Ku steeled himself. He swallowed, and forced himself to smile. “Don’t you want me alive?”

  “For a couple days, maybe.” The voice was calm, as though speaking to a dead man.

  Ch’i stretched out her legs to get off the bed but hesitated, and tugged at the blanket to cover—

  “Don’t move the blanket. The two of you, tie him up inside the blanket.”

  So all she could do was reach for her bodice to cover her crotch, and stand by the side of the bed.

  Behind her, Ku reached for the gun, careful not to let his shoulders move, and edged toward the side of the bed to get into a better position.

  Now Ch’i was standing on the ground by the bed, and to the right of her pelvis he could see the Mauser. She edged toward the right, and her pale ass had never looked curvier or more beautiful. Her green birthmark shivered. Strangely, he was not afraid. He wanted to reach his hand out and plunge it between her legs again. He wanted to pull her back toward him and make her cry out like a
lonely seagull on the Whampoa at midnight.

  When the Browning appeared to her left in front of him, he fired. He didn’t need to worry about the empty-handed man on the right, who had tossed his axe on the ground by the door, assuming that the Mauser had everything under control.

  He fired straight at the Browning’s chin, shooting his chinbone off. He pushed Ch’i aside to look for the Mauser. Ch’i stumbled, but she suddenly turned toward him, spreading her arms out, as though she wanted to make her body into a wall.

  The Mauser fired a single round that pierced her from the tailbone through to her belly. But her body changed the trajectory of the bullet as she turned, so that it penetrated the blanket and lodged in the wall.

  Ku stretched out his right hand to break her fall, pulling the trigger with his left. One round, two, he aimed again, a third round. His targets slowly collapsed onto the ground, and for a moment there was complete silence. You could hear the wild cats in heat, and blood bubbling from wounds. Only now did he notice that his hand was pressed against Ch’i’s pubic hair. Her pubic bone, which usually felt soft, now felt sharp like a rock, making his wrists hurt. He withdrew his hand. He could feel the warmth in her body as it grew cold.

  Ku was now sitting in the attic of the candle shop, smoking endlessly and plotting his revenge.

  CHAPTER 23

  JUNE 17, YEAR 20 OF THE REPUBLIC.

  3:00 P.M.

  From the roof of Te-hsing Hotel, Ku scanned the mansion opposite him on Route Ratard with a pair of racecourse binoculars. He had booked the entire third floor of the hotel. Half an hour earlier, he had been busy working on the third-floor balcony disguised as a technician installing electric lights. But the roof was a better vantage point. From it he could see not just the mansion, but also its extensive grounds farther north, along Avenue Foch.

  At 181 Avenue Foch was Fu-sheng Casino. It was one of the Boss’s top sources of income, and also where he made all his friends. Everyone had heard of it, but not everyone was allowed in. There was no shortage of gambling dens in the Concession. When the British banned gambling in the International Settlement, they had all picked up and moved south. But Fu-sheng was reserved for high rollers, and new gamblers had to be vouched for by existing members. Anyone who qualified was handed a thousand yuan worth of chips at the door and wouldn’t have to settle the bill until he left.

  It was a three-story villa with red tiles and wide eaves, high walls and low walls. A squadron of fully armed guards posted at windows and balconies controlled every inch of the nine-acre grounds from their positions. The walls were decorated with intricate wall carvings, the perfect firing position for a shootout. Ku saw Morris Jr. standing behind a second-floor window on the corridor. He knew that that was the guardroom. The night before, he and Park had wormed their way into the building dressed as two high-rolling gamblers. Park, the former actor, was much better at coming up with disguises. The entire grounds could be seen from the guardroom. The casino guards could defend the main gate and walls from the three vertical windows facing north toward Avenue Foch, and use automatic rifles to secure the yard and back gate from the windows facing south.

  Morris Jr. was about to leave the grounds. There were more than thirty bodyguards at Fu-sheng, huge sums of cash, and scores of important guests who couldn’t be touched. It was three in the afternoon, and he could afford to take off for a few hours, until the Boss himself got there in the evening. He always arrived punctually at eight and played the domino game Pai Gow for four or five hours, humming to himself as he played. Then Morris Jr. would not be able to step away even for a moment. Lin had found all this out by talking to the gardeners.

  Morris Jr. was not tall, but he was as sturdy as a turret on an armored police vehicle. His nervous tic was squinting, but he wasn’t squinting right now. Although Ku had killed all three of the hit men sent to dispatch him the previous Sunday evening, that did not seem to worry the thug at all.

  Morris Jr. had disappeared from view. He must be inspecting the rooms. The smaller rooms would be empty, with only a handful of guests milling about the roulette and dice tables. But Ku’s binoculars picked him out again inside the bar where guests came for a breather or a bite to eat. He was stuffing cigars into a leather pouch, bantering with the waitresses, and looking out the window. The back gate on the far side of the lawn was shut, and guards sat outside the greenhouse, dozing in the sun.

  He went over to the iron gate, and disappeared behind a wall. That did not trouble Ku at all. Lin would be watching him from there. They had already spent a few days staking out this place, and they knew Morris Jr.’s routine by heart. He always cut diagonally across Avenue Foch, ignoring the cars that sped past as though he were the only man on the road. Then he would walk straight up to the counters at the Continental Car Service and hire a cab. Once he had paid, and the attendants said his cab was ready, he would saunter out, maybe light a cigarette at the door. He would turn the corner into the longtang next door, and walk toward the garage at the end of the alley.

  The whole process from hiring a cab at the counter to walking into the garage would take him about three minutes. That gave Lin’s unit plenty of time to get ready. In those three minutes, they would board a car, having already hired one and claimed that they were waiting for a friend in the garage. Then they would direct the driver to make a turn at the gate, the only blind spot that could not be seen from the drivers’ waiting room. There they could hustle him off the cab with a gun to his temple, shoving him into the storage room just to the left of the exit, where they would truss him up and stuff his mouth with absorbent cotton balls.

  No one in Lin’s unit knew how to drive a car, so Ku directed Park to join them for this operation. At this moment, Park was sitting in the driver’s seat, wearing his absurd knitted cap, its edge folded all the way back to the bobble, making it look like a dumpling with too much skin.

  Ku ordered all his operatives to wear ordinary clothes with one really outrageous accessory. Lin, for instance, had wrapped his amber-colored glasses, nose bridge included, in white medical gauze. If there is one thing about you that stands out, people tend to focus on it and forget what your face looks like. A small trick, but it always works.

  Killing Morris Jr. would rid Shanghai of a gangster known for his cruelty, but Ku also had other motives for targeting him.

  As soon as Morris Jr. appeared, squinting at the car and making his way toward it, Park was to push the door open and shout over the black Czech-made car:

  “Your usual opium den, sir? Hop on board, please.” Ku had wondered whether Park’s northern accent would give him away, but he decided it would have to do. Luckily Continental employed plenty of drivers from Shan-tung.

  Morris had an opium habit. Although the casino provided it to guests as a courtesy, he kept his little vice a secret, especially from the Boss. He always directed the cabdrivers to take him to North Szechuen Road.

  Later, when they debriefed, Park mentioned that he had backed the car along the wall several times, so that the passenger door would be right next to the wooden door to the storage room: “We didn’t want to give him another second to squint.” Lin jumped in from the right passenger door, and Park opened the window between the front and back of the cab, telling his passenger to stay calm and not get jumpy. Not that he could move with a Mauser pointed at his brain—or rather, jabbing into his eyelid. Having your eyeball burn while your eyelashes itched must be uncomfortable, Ku snickered.

  At night, 181 Avenue Foch lit up from all its windows like a huge lantern or a gold furnace. Cash flowed like molten gold at the tables.

  But Ku wasn’t after the money at Fu-sheng—he was smarter than that. Besides, if they could pull this off, wouldn’t every other casino in the Concession be showering People’s Strength with protection money? He might not be working toward a Communist revolution, but he did think of himself as revolutionizing the power dynamics of the Concession.

  Right now, he wanted revenge. Not only had the
Concession powers underestimated him, but they had also killed his woman, and if she hadn’t taken a bullet for him, he might be dead too. He did not tell the rest of the cell about his grudge against Morris Jr. and goal of revenge. But whenever he thought about it, his whole body longed for Ch’i.

  While the others were preoccupied, he kneed the captive in the groin, slamming his balls from beneath, so that the man fell over and rolled on the floor with pain. Luckily Te-hsing Hotel was a family-run boardinghouse, and he had been able to book all the adjacent rooms on the third floor, as well as those above and below his own, for only ten yuan. From the room downstairs, Lin heard the man crash to the floor. Ku’s subordinates burst in, and he let them drag Morris Jr. downstairs, noting with satisfaction that Morris Jr. still couldn’t stand up straight. The fun had only just started. There was no reason why the cell should know that this was a matter of private revenge—the corrupt gangs were their enemies by default. Not only were the gangs the product of a reactionary society, but they had also massacred Communists on behalf of the authorities.

  He stood on the third floor of the hotel and looked out toward the barbed fence on Route Ratard, toward the black expanse of the lawn. Backlit, the flower beds glimmered like ghosts. A dim electric light was hung at the entrance to the greenhouse, and someone was smoking beneath it. The huge golden lantern seemed almost to be soundproof. Not a sound could be heard despite the blazing light, which made it even eerier.

  He saw Lin and company cross Route Ratard with Morris Jr., whose arms had been tied behind his back. The beefy Morris was nicknamed the “rice dumpling,” and now he was tied up like a dumpling wrapped in leaves. None of the passersby paid any attention to the curious group. The casino at 181 Avenue Foch was known for odd goings-on, and no one batted an eyelash. A few of them might have stopped to stare from about a hundred feet away, and then given the group a wide berth. He was worried that Route Ratard might be watched by gang lookouts, but the road was quiet for miles around, and nothing moved.