Shanghai Story: A WWII Drama Trilogy Book One

by Alexa Kang

  What could he do? If he were to help Xiaochun, where would he even begin?

  Tang Wei might have some ideas, if he hadn’t gone to Nanking to report to the central government.

  “Young Master, we’ve arrived.” Huang Shifu stopped the car.

  “Thank you.” Clark got out. He’d have to put these concerns aside for now. His morning schedule was full. First a meeting with deputy secretary Sītu, then another one with the American foreign service officer Joseph Whitman, his primary liaison at the U.S. consulate.

  In his office, Sītu discussed with Clark a series of the KMT’s recent projects, including the continued expansion of the railroads. “As much as you can, convince Whitman the railway is essential for the future growth of American trade and commercial activities in China’s interior and the South. Construction of the Zhejiang–Jiangxi section is underway. Make him understand that if we’re to keep up progress, we’ll need their support. Remember to remind them they wouldn’t want all the benefits of an operating railroad to go to the Britons. Let them know the British are already pouring money into our rail projects.”

  As Clark listened, a thought began circling in his mind. What if he asked Sītu for his advice about how to help Xiaochun? The man had power and connections. He handled government businesses on a high level. Maybe he could offer an easy solution?

  “Whitman’s a fairly straightforward man.” Sītu took a drag of his cigarette. “He doesn’t take twists and turns when he talks. You can appeal to his innate sense of doing the right thing. Emphasize to him how much Generalissimo Chiang wants to bring democracy to China. Press the fact that if America wants a China that’s friendly to American interests and good for the Chinese people, then U.S. aid and support are indispensable.”

  Good for the Chinese people. Did a career government official like Sītu truly care about that? Clark wondered. If he did, then surely he wouldn’t refuse to help Xiaochun if Clark asked? Everyone suspected opium dens were operating under the government’s tacit approval anyway. Sītu might even know someone connected to the Blue Lotus. Helping Xiaochun to stop her husband from going to opium dens would take no more effort than raising a hand.

  “That will be all for now.” Sītu stubbed out his cigarette. “You’re doing a good job gaining the Americans’ trust. I can tell, Whitman has a good impression of you. Keep it up.”

  “Thank you,” Clark said. He cleared his throat. “Deputy Secretary, there’s something I need your help with.”

  “What is it?”

  “Someone I know . . . a maidservant of my family, her husband’s an opium addict. His addiction’s ruining their lives. He no longer works. He steals money his wife saved for their son’s school tuition and medical expenses for her father. He frequents an opium den called Blue Lotus.”

  “Did you say Blue Lotus?”

  “Yes,” Clark said. “You know this place?”

  “I’ve heard of it.”

  He had? Good. “I wonder, do you have any suggestions how I can help her?”

  Sītu looked Clark in the eye. Clark couldn’t tell from his expressionless face whether he’d done the right thing asking for his help. Maybe it was a mistake. Perhaps he should withdraw his request. “I thought you might know of some way to convince the opium dens to blacklist him. I’m probably being unrealistic—”

  Sītu interrupted him, “What are your thoughts on the opium problem in Shanghai?”

  “You’re asking me?”

  “Yes. You’re well-educated. You’ve lived overseas in an advanced country like America. What do you think about the widespread opium usage in this city? In this country?”

  Clark hesitated. Should he be frank, or was Sītu testing him?

  Then again, why would Sītu fault him if he honestly admitted he was concerned? For the sake of appearance alone, he couldn’t possibly say he didn’t care. “I find it troubling,” Clark said. “I’ve been back in Shanghai for almost two months now. Seeing all the opium dens thriving in this city is disheartening. We talk about combating the Communists and uniting our country. How can we unite our people when opium is fueling crimes, sucking money, and siphoning souls?”

  “I feel that way myself sometimes.”

  Clark raised his head. “You too?”

  “Of course! Drug addiction leads to all sorts of crimes. I worry a great deal about this problem too.”

  His word gave Clark a glimmer of hope. “When my maidservant came to me asking for help, I felt useless. I’m a KMT agent. The KMT makes promises we’ll look out for people like her. How can I convince them we’re not making empty promises when I can’t even do anything in the slightest to help her?”

  “Who said you can’t help?” Sītu opened his hand. “We’ve formed the National Board of Opium Suppression Bureau precisely to combat this problem. Like all things, it’ll take time. Hopefully, one day, we’ll wipe this evil out.”

  “Yes.”

  “However, your maidservant can’t wait that long. I know someone you can talk to.”

  “Really?” Clark’s mind perked up.

  Sītu wrote a name and a phone number on a piece of notepaper. “Superintendent Deng is an old friend of mine. He oversees the Public Security Bureau in Old City section where the Blue Lotus operates. He can help you resolve this type of problem. A little threat from the law should bring an addict husband back in line.” He gave the notepaper to Clark. “Besides, eliminating opium addiction should be our common goal.”

  This was more help than Clark had hoped for. “Thank you very much, Deputy Secretary.”

  Sītu waved his hand. When Clark left his office, he read the name of the police superintendent again. The Old City was the section of Shanghai still under Chinese control, and the Public Security Bureau formed by the Nationalist government had police power over all the areas that China had not ceded to the foreigners.

  He hoped he could bring Xiaochun good news.

  At the U.S. consulate’s office, Clark waited in the conference room, ready to go over the talking points Sītu had given him to discuss with the Americans. Dealing with the Americans was easier than with the Chinese or the British. The Chinese and the British were alike in a way. The British were known to be reserved. The Chinese weren’t ones to easily let on their thoughts either. But unlike the British, their reservation couldn’t be attributed to stoicism behind a stiff upper lip. More often than not, the self-restraint of the Chinese stemmed from the likelihood that whoever you were speaking to was harboring ulterior motives against you, and you were doing the same thing against him. You never wanted to let the other side know your next steps, and you never took chances and let your guard down. The Chinese culture was one of instinctive mistrust.

  The Americans were a whole different story. They liked to solve every problem by talking things out. They had a steadfast faith that everything could be resolved if only everyone would be fair and knew the rules. They always made an attempt to reason, as if by reasoning, they could talk the other side into doing what made sense.

  To their credit, the old American China Hands had wised up. Years of living in Shanghai had taught them that when it came to the Chinese, the one thing that always mattered was self-interest. They’d learned to take this into consideration when they wanted something from the Chinese.

  Luckily for Clark, newer transplants like Joseph Whitman, who’d only been in China for a year, still hadn’t quite caught on. Clark wished he could be more forthright in return. Unfortunately, that was not up to him. His role here was to pursue Chinese interests.

  He laid out the documents he’d brought while the office assistant served him his coffee. When Whitman joined him though, the American had an entirely different agenda. “Isn’t there anything you people can do about the gangs?” Whitman asked, his voice exasperated.

  “The gangs?”

  “Yes. Our companies are trying to run legitimate businesses. How are they supposed to account for their expenses when they keep having to pay fees and protec
tion money to all your gangs whenever they need to get things done?”

  The gangs were extorting money from American companies? “Which gangs?”

  “I don’t know. All of them.” Whitman threw his hands in the air. “Although I’ve been told, the Green Gang was the one behind all the problems. I assume you know about them.”

  The Green Gang. Yes. The secret organization that ran the Shanghai underground. To Westerners, they were the Chinese mobs. Reality was more complicated, and gang was not the most accurate way to describe them. Organizations like the Green Gang were more like a fraternity. A sworn brotherhood and sisterhood. Throughout history, people had joined these alliances and offered their loyalty in return for allegiance with a circle of people with whom they shared something in common. Sometimes, the commonality could be a certain set of religious beliefs, like a Buddhist or Taoist sect. Other times, it could be a group with a need to further and protect their business enterprises through strength in numbers. It could even be an exclusive group of people who practiced a particular school of martial arts.

  The Green Gang originated the same way, but it had long abandoned its roots in grain shipping. As their influence grew, they’d strayed into criminal activities. Today, they had their hands in every form of criminal enterprise. Gambling, extortion, kidnapping, and prostitution. Above all, the opium trade. They were the master gang in Shanghai that kept all the smaller local gangs in order.

  “I’ve heard of the Green Gang,” Clark admitted. “I hadn’t heard about them causing trouble for foreigners.” Chinese criminals did not as a practice target foreigners or foreign companies. If the rumors were true, then some foreigners might have colluded with them. Everyone knew a story or two about how the French paid and cooperated with the Chinese gangs to maintain order in the French concession.

  “They’re not causing trouble in the International Settlement,” Whitman said. “But when our operations move inland, it’s worse than the Wild West. At Chapei right now, nothing goes through unless we pay them or have an American be there in person. Our Chinese managers don’t dare to defy them. They use company money to pay off the gangs. Then they come back and tell us they couldn’t unload their shipments if the gangs weren’t paid. Our goods couldn’t be shipped. Our factories couldn’t be built. We can’t even hire workers. The whole thing is a circus.”

  These practices weren’t news to Clark, except for the fact that they were happening to American companies. Many foreigners didn’t understand that doing businesses in China involved guanxi, meaning a relationship with someone who’d look out for your interests. Often, guanxi required cash. One way to avoid relying on guanxi with the gangs was to form guanxi with the law enforcers, the way his father had done for years. The only question was whose wheel to grease, but he couldn’t tell that to the Americans.

  “I’m glad you brought this to my attention,” Clark said. “I’ll report back to Deputy Secretary Sītu. We’ll do whatever we can to help.” Maybe. He’d have to talk to Sītu. For now, he had to tell Whitman something.

  “Please!” Whitman crossed his arms, his face still frustrated. “I’m tired of all the complaints.”

  Clark gave him an apologetic smile. Another complicated problem to solve, and the day wasn’t even half over.

  Not all guanxi involved money. The kind of guanxi between Deputy Secretary Sītu and Superintendent Deng was the type that came out of each party performing repeated favors for the other.

  In his office at the police station, Deng poured the oolong tea from the teapot into the gaiwan, the lidded bowl used for infusion. He let the tea sit and took a cigarette out of his pack.

  “Want one?” He offered his pack to Clark. Clark shook his head no.

  Deng lit his cigarette. “Sītu and I are like brothers. We lived on the same street when we were children. He’s made it big now, but he isn’t a man who would forget his roots. I’m only a common policeman, but if I tell him I need help, he’d cross boiling water and run through fire for me. Sometimes, when he runs into situations he can’t openly handle, I take care of those for him.” He picked up the gaiwan and swirled it, then poured the tea into two little pinming teacups and gave one to Clark.

  “Thank you.” Clark accepted out of courtesy.

  Deng’s wide face widened with a broad smile, revealing his tea- and cigarette-stained teeth. He picked up his own cup and sucked in the aroma. “Ah,” he exhaled before he slurped the tea.

  Not to offend him, Clark took a sip.

  “The Blue Lotus is giving you problems, eh?” Deng took a deep drag on his cigarette.

  “Not me personally,” Clark said. “A man I know is a patron there. Liang Ah-Jin. From what I hear, most of these opium dens are run by syndicates. Perhaps if you can send a message to the dens not to serve him anymore?”

  “Say no more.” Deng held up his hand. “This Liang is not to set foot in any opium den again. I’ll see to that.” He tapped the ashes of his cigarette into the ashtray. “Ke-Hao,” he shouted out through his open door.

  A police officer, about twenty-five or twenty-six years old, entered his office. “Yes, Superintendent?”

  Deng said to Clark, “This is officer Zhou Ke-Hao, my most reliable assistant. I’m putting him in charge of this matter.” He turned to Zhou. “This is Counselor Yuan. He’s an advisor at the Foreign Affairs Bureau. A very important person.”

  “Counselor Yuan.” Zhou tipped his head at Clark. Clark nodded in acknowledgment.

  “We’re going to help him bust a few opium dens.” Deng’s lips turned up into a satisfied smile.

  Clark sat up in his seat. “Superintendent, I didn’t ask that—”

  “Aay.” Deng held up his hand again. “Don’t you worry. Leave everything up to us. We know how to deal with these thugs. If you want them to do something, you have to show force.” He waved his cigarette at Clark. “It’s good to put those vermin running opium dens in their place from time to time. Keep them in line. Make them remember who’s in charge.”

  Put them in their place? Deng had enough power to do that?

  “You can’t wipe out these rodents, but you can do a cleanup every now and then. Otherwise, they get out of control,” Deng said.

  Clark smiled to hide his doubts. Deng sure talked big. What if he were to ask Deng to help with Joseph Whitman’s gang problems? Would Deng be so pompous as to say he would go after the Green Gang too?

  Or perhaps he had personal connections with the criminal syndicates. Was that why he talked with so much confidence? It wouldn’t surprise Clark if the police colluded with the gangs to keep order and peace. Curious, he asked, “Superintendent, what if the criminal element we’re talking about is the Green Gang? Would you apply the same force?”

  Deng’s smile dropped, but he quickly recovered. “Certainly! I make no exceptions. How else would we keep their respect? Right, Ke-Hao?”

  “Right,” Officer Zhou answered, shifting his eyes away.

  Skeptical, Clark meant to leave it at that. But Deng asked, “Is the Green Gang giving you problems?”

  Clark considered his options. Since Deng asked, why not test him? “My American liaison tells me the Green Gang and their cohorts are harassing their factories. They’re extorting money from the Chinese staff of American companies operating in Chapei.”

  “Such a thing is happening?” Deng drew back in disbelief. His act was hardly convincing.

  But still, if he could make the Green Gang leave the American companies alone, it mattered little whether he did it by force or by making deals. “Can you do anything to make them stop?” Clark asked. “Secretary Sītu isn’t happy about this.”

  Deng narrowed his eyes. “We’ll have to investigate.”

  Was that hesitation? Looked like the superintendent wasn’t as mighty as he claimed. Lowering his voice, Clark asked, “Your force isn’t afraid of the Green Gang, are they?”

  “Of course not! Who dares to raise trouble under my watch? If what you’re saying is true, we�
�ll definitely take action.”

  Seeing Deng had taken the bait, Clark pressed on. “We need the Americans as allies. We can’t let the gangs harm our relationship. We can’t let Secretary Sītu lose face.”

  “I understand.” Deng waved his hand. “Tell Sītu he needn’t worry. I’ll personally handle everything.”

  Clark sat back. Could Deng really deliver? What tricks might he have up his sleeve?

  Whatever he was scheming, reminding him of Sītu was a good move. Deng would have to take the matter seriously if it affected the deputy secretary.

  While Clark was thinking, Deng poured him another cup of tea. Beside them, Officer Zhou was sizing him up. Unperturbed by a mere police officer, Clark stared back and met his gaze. Quickly, Zhou looked away. He straightened his legs and his arms behind his back, giving not a sliver of his thoughts away.

  Up till this point, Clark had paid little attention to the policeman. He took his time to drink his tea and observe the officer. Unlike Deng, this one had eyes that saw everything. Clark felt in him a sense of integrity that Deng lacked.

  Zhou. He made a mental note. Someone to remember down the road if Deng was nothing but big talk.

  11

  No Good Deed

  At the crosswalk, Eden checked the hand-drawn map given to her by Wen-Li, the Yuans’ youngest daughter. The tea shop should be on the next street, and the stop for the bus back to Frenchtown should be on the street beyond that. She tried to retrace her steps. The street signs, all written in Chinese, did not help.

  She’d come to the fabric store in Old City once already last week. Mr. Wu, the fabric store’s owner, was a friend of Madam Yuan. With that connection, he gave Eden’s mother a deep discount when she bought from him. Plus, the quality of their materials was first-rate.