David Rotenberg - The Shanghai Murders

Li Xiao was so startled at the advance of this enormous woman speaking in a foreign tongue that he almost fell backward. Before he could get his balance she was advancing on him, blood pouring crimson on her white makeup.

“Yeah, you, I’m talking to you, you yellow devil, you monkey in a suit, I’m talking to you, you fucking son of a bitch, you cocksucking dog fucker.” Then she saw the man she assumed was his Hu-ness and charged at him. “I’m talking to you , you puny-dicked moron, you. . .”

It was enough. She’d caused the one thing the Chinese cannot handle. Chaos. There was screaming everywhere as her words were translated with as much delicacy as possible. When she grabbed his Hu-ness by the lapels, all hell broke loose. Cops were moving everywhere.

It was not hard for Fong to slip out. He didn’t delude himself into believing that Loa Wei Fen in the theatre’s flies would be fooled. So he ran. But as he ran he savoured the memory of Amanda Pitman calling his Hu-ness a puny-dicked moron.

Fong didn’t remember much of what happened next. It had begun to rain. Traffic was horribly snarled. He ran. Darkness fell. The storm broke in all its fury as he entered the tunnel under the Bund at Beijing Road. He had no idea how it had gotten so late so quickly. All he knew was that he could run no more.

The tunnel was empty except for the old musician and his filthy child.

“Just let me sleep here, grandfather. Betray me if you must.” The beggar child moved from his blanket rag and approached Fong with his hand out. Fong reached into his pocket and gave the boy every yuan note he had left. The boy neither smiled nor frowned but delivered the money to his father, who began to play. As the haunting music echoed in the tunnel, Fong leaned back against the coolness of the tunnel wall. He breathed through his open mouth, his eyes misting. Without a sound the beggar boy came over to him and curled up in his lap. The warmth of the boy on Fong’s body sent a sob through his being. With his hand in the beggar boy’s hair, he drifted off to sleep with one final thought: if there is a god, he is laughing now.

Fong’s dream that night began with the cobra. Its steel coils were snaking their way down the hallowed-out shaft of the construction site elevator. Fong was at the bottom, completely walled in, and despite his frantic efforts to pry open the elevator doors they refused to budge. Outside the elevator shaft Fong could see the rattan wrapping and the massive bamboo scaffolds. His screams for help were drowned out by the screech of the storm and the thunder of the cranes. Above, the mighty snake flared its hood and descended the cables of the elevator-never fast but constant. Suddenly the mercury vapor arc lights switched on, converting darkest night into frozen day. The reptile’s unblinking eyes glinted red. Without warning the mighty snake dropped itself from the cables directly onto Fong’s now almost paralyzed body.

His scream must have awakened the beggar boy, who was patting Fong’s hair and whispering that things were going to be all right.

It was very late at night. There was little traffic in the tunnel. The old string player was shovelling a small bowl of rice into his toothless maw and staring at Fong. He finished his rice, stood up and, taking the boy by the hand, headed out of the tunnel. Fong could have sworn that the old man said two words over his shoulder: the Pudong.

Then things happened in a blur. Wang Jun was at his side. The two of them were running. Sirens crowded the night, competing with the roiling thunder. They jumped into Wang Jun’s car and headed across the suspension bridge. “What are you doing, Wang Jun?”

“I’m being dangerously sentimental. I’m saving your sorry life.”

As Wang Jun’s car careened off the exit ramp from the suspension bridge, he headed away from the sirens- into the heart of the Pudong.

Li Xiao and Loa We Fen got the report of the escape from the tunnel at the same time. The difference was that Li Xiao was on the Shanghai side of the Huangpo River, Loa Wei Fen on the Pudong side. . . waiting.

Wang Jun slammed on the brakes, skidding his car to a stop not two feet from the police roadblock. With a precision that identified them as federal troops, the men at the roadblock advanced on Wang Jun’s car.

Fong looked at his old friend. Wang Jun didn’t seem to be unhappy. “Where will they put you, Wang Jun?”

“In hell with you, no doubt.”

“That’s only true if they catch us.”

Wang Jun reached inside his jacket and took out his gun. He held it out to Fong and said, “You’re younger.”

With that, both men slammed open their doors, rolled out onto the pavement and bounded to their feet before their would-be captors could react.

As he ran Fong heard the gunshots and the thud of Wang Jun’s body slamming to the pavement. He didn’t hesitate or look back. He ran deep into the mystery of the old area. Deep into the heart of this terrifying place. He didn’t stop until his legs would take him no farther.

He found himself in the midst of a large muck-filled construction site.

He leaned against a stack of bamboo, his breath ragged in his chest. Raising his head he saw two great arc lights far across the vast construction site. Their beams were focused on a solitary bamboo elevator shaft. He took a step toward it before it struck him like a sledgehammer blow to the chest. His heart leapt in fear. It was the elevator shaft from his dream.

Before he could move he heard the slosh of a foot sliding in the muck behind him. He instinctively ducked to his left. The swolta tore through his quilted jacket and sliced across his left breast just to one side of his nipple, continuing down to rip through sections of Fong’s left leg.

For a moment he looked at his attacker, who had slipped to the muck-covered ground, then he ran and slid and yelled and fought the pain until a darkness seemed to envelop him.

He had to rest. His body was soaked with blood and sweat, the pelting rain mixing the two in an unholy froth.

He leaned back against a solid surface that gave slightly against his weight. It was bamboo. He turned slowly, a tingling fear electrifying his blood.

He was at the base of the solitary elevator shaft, the construction lights full in his eyes.

Loa Wei Fen looked down. Beneath him was the end of his quest. Directly below, blinded by the bright construction-site lights, it crouched warily, its head moving left and right but never up. Never up the bamboo elevator shaft. Never to where Loa Wei Fen lurked and patiently waited, like a lion cub on a roof, ready to jump.

“Above, Loa Wei Fen, always attack from above,” the voice of his old teacher whispered in his ears. So removing his muddied shirt, he began. His hand reached for the swolta. The knife hilt rolled slightly and fitted itself to its master’s palm. Then down, down the bamboo bracing he slithered, his prey never suspecting danger from above.

After the first attack Fong’s mobility was reduced to a hobbling gait but there was still spring in his step and although the knife had severed muscle it had missed tendon, so the leg still responded to his will. When he fell his gun had filled with thick mud. Now, as he braced himself against the bamboo elevator shaft, he tried desperately to clean the gun barrel. His enemy was clearly stronger and quicker than he. Only the bad footing had saved his life on that first attack. Now he would have to survive by his wits.

“Loa Wei Fen,” he shouted into the harsh lights. “Loa Wei Fen, we know who you are. We know your school in Taipei. We have pictures of you.” He waited. There was no response. The rain picked up again.

On one side of the tall bamboo shaft low-voltage electric lines hissed slightly as the rain caused shorts where the cables were jury-rigged together. The lines led to a major power source high up on the shaft. On the ground muck and puddles covered most of the area except for a slightly raised cement pad upon which the elevator car would eventually come to rest.