The Last Rose of Shanghai(52)

Yamazaki had returned. After all these months. My legs trembling, I stepped out of my car. It was about five o’clock in the afternoon, a good hour in the ballroom. Yet no sound of jazz.

The doors to the ballroom were open, no guards or bouncers. Thick smoke, mixed with the smell of alcohol, floated inside the club. On the stage, the drummer hit the crash cymbal and out came the broken notes of “Summertime”; all the dancers, including Lanyu, were hunched at the edge of the dance floor. Under the glittering eighteen thousand lights paced Yamazaki in his damned uniform, his eyes glazed and face red like roasted meat.

He had brought a soldier.

The three gangly teenage boys near the ballroom’s entrance, caps askew, stumbled toward me. “He’s going to kill us all!” the pimple-faced one said.

“I told you we shouldn’t come here again,” the cross-eyed boy added.

The one with a loud voice said, “Miss Shao, he came for you. You better run. He’s going to kill you.”

My legs weakened; my breath stuck in my throat. But this was my club; if I ran away, my customers, my dancers, my workers would be the scapegoats.

“Where’s the bitch? Is she hiding? Tell her to come out!” Yamazaki was shouting. Then he saw me. “There! There! I see you! Don’t move! Where is the foreigner?”

He was drunk, all his cultivated courtesy slipped off, and his voice that used to be placid was high pitched and full of menace.

I took out a cigarette from my purse. Cold lights of red, green, and blue sliced the faces around me; in the calmest voice that I could summon, I said, “He’s gone. I can’t find him. Look, I have important news about my club that I’m dying to tell you. Cigarette? This is from my new partner, Sassoon. He sends his regards.”

Yamazaki’s mole glistened in the light. “The British billionaire?”

“He owns Ciro’s and now nearly half of my club.” I blew out some smoke, nervous, but I saw my managers, busboys, dancers, and food servers gathered around me to form a protective human wall. Even the gangly boys, who would have fled for safety, joined.

“Is he here?”

“Sassoon doesn’t like to walk. He’s in his hotel. Maybe he’ll come tomorrow.”

“A partner, you said?”

“He offered a deal I couldn’t refuse. The contract is in my office. I’d be much obliged to show it to you. It’s so quiet here. How about some music?”

To my relief, Mr. Li blew his trumpet, and Lanyu, reading the message in my eyes, grabbed her partner and glided to the dance floor. Yamazaki, looking surprised, staggered to the soldier he brought. The two conversed in their language, groaned, and burst out laughing.

Fear crawled on my skin.

Laughing as though he had heard a joke, Yamazaki stumbled toward me again. “I don’t care what contract you have. The Briton can’t protect you. Soon he will fall onto his knees to our emperor, Hirohito! Japan, the mightiest empire, will conquer all Asia!”

I perspired. My dress, soaked with sweat, stuck to my back, and my high heels pinched deep into my ankles. Before I could speak, he seized my hair, pulled, and thrust my head lower to force me to kneel. It felt as if my face were lacerated by a knife.

“Honorable guest, would you like to dance?” I heard Lanyu’s voice.

“How dare you speak to me, bitch.”

I was thrown to the floor. When I scrambled up, the madman was rummaging for the pistol in his holster. Hiccupping, he missed, then gripped it and raised the Mauser at Lanyu.

A sound exploded.

A shocking silence descended. Like a skillful rumba dancer rapt in her dance, Lanyu leaned back gracefully. But no one was there to catch her, and she thudded to the floor.

A crash came from somewhere. The ballroom dimmed, and a wave of screams shot up to the ceiling. A drop of scotch fell on my lips. I tried to stand straight, tried to push aside the jostling arms and feet, tried to reach Lanyu lying in a puddle of darkness. Someone save her!

A voice called out for me; in a shadowy blur I saw Cheng and Ying burst into the ballroom. Ying raised something in his hand. Another explosive sound. Glass shattered, wine bottles exploded, chairs crashed, windows shattered. Damage that would cost a fortune to repair.

In a cloud of spilled-alcohol spray and the pungent odor of sulfur, I came face to face with a Mauser. It was close, too close. But this couldn’t be happening. I didn’t do anything wrong. I only wanted to protect Ernest and my club. I couldn’t be shot. I was too young. I didn’t want to die.

A pop. It sounded like it came across from me, or from the ceiling, or through it. It rang in my ears, piercing, but I barely jumped or screamed.





42


ERNEST


She was gone. The club was closed. No neon lights, no men smoking cigarettes, no idlers loitering around, all the music and life were sucked out. For hours Ernest sat on the empty staircase outside the building; he asked everyone passing by.

There were gunshots, people said. Someone was killed. Who? No one knew.



He went back to Sassoon’s hotel and borrowed the phone from the bar, using the privilege as a former employee, and dialed Aiyi’s home number, which he had memorized. A man with a British accent answered. The Cambridge-educated brother, he supposed. He hung up when he heard Ernest introduce himself.

Ernest clutched the black canvas bag, heavy like a carcass. Aiyi was alive; she had to be.