Second Chance

Chapter 2 - Reminiscene

Jake’s home was located in a well-to-do suburb five miles south of the imperial city. The twelve-room European-style mansion with an extensive garden, lawn, and marble swimming pool, was a magnificent architectural affair. Certainly, this place was too colossal for just Jake to reside in, more so that Mei-suet was no longer around. Yet it had not been his decision to buy the property. Rather, he had got it because he was in the right place at the right time.

This villa, along with several other luxury residences in and out of Beijing, had once been owned by a tycoon named Ng Pak-cheung. He also founded the tea company that Jake was now managing. In 1917, when Pak-cheung, then a loyal assistant to Wing-mun, wished to quit and venture into the tea trade, the other members had wanted his head – it was an unwritten rule that nobody could leave the gang unless he was dead. Fortunately Wing-mun saw potential in the shrewd and enterprising young man and chose to set him free. No one dared go against his decision – the crime czar’s word was law in the underworld. The big man even gave him money to kick-start his business in return for a 50-50 partnership. Forever beholden to his boss for sparing his life, Pak-cheung went to Beijing, bought over an ailing tea plantation, and turned it into a multi-million dollar enterprise.

A few years later, when Wing-mun heard Jake was taking his newly-wed wife to visit Beijing, he arranged for the couple to be put up at the palatial three-storey house – Pak-cheung, of course, had no objections. He even played host to them. Barely a week into their stay, the tycoon and his family were ambushed and murdered by a jealous business rival while on an outing. Wing-mun quickly moved in, avenged his partner, and took over the dead man’s shares and assets without much of a hassle – he might have been an out-of-towner, but when he pulled strings, many people in Beijing still danced to his tune. All he needed now was someone he could trust to take care of the lucrative tea trade in his absence. And Jake fit the bill. Always enormously generous with his friends, he made Jake an offer he couldn’t possibly refuse: equal partnership, an insanely hefty salary, a chauffeured-driven car, and best of all, ownership of the mansion that he and Mei-suet were staying in.

The clock struck four. Jake was back at the house, resting on a comfortable armchair in his cavernous study, a bottle of Martell Cordon Bleu on the table beside him. He had dropped Wing-mun off at The Grand Hyatt, the finest hotel in Beijing, to let him have his afternoon nap – his daily routine after lunch – and was scheduled to pick him up at seven tonight.

Jake uncorked the bottle, sniffed it, and poured himself a glass. It was his favourite brandy. Before he came to know about the existence of this beverage, he had been into cheap Chinese sorghum wine. Wing-mun had spoiled him by introducing the Cordon Bleu. He had gotten hooked on this French-made cognac the moment his nose first discovered its rich and subtle nutmeg aroma.

As the gramophone played a soft piano melody in the background, he took a few sips before staring at a wedding portrait of Mei-suet and him hanging on the wall. This was the only photograph of them together. She had only been twenty-five years old when she died. Dark-haired, with ivory skin, full glossy red lips, and sparkling eyes of brown, there had been something about her that was inherently appealing, an undefinable quality that none of his other girlfriends had possessed. She was also beautiful, smart, and gutsy. And despite being broke most of the time – typical of a struggling artist – she always possessed a cheerful disposition, her captivating smile painting a beam of sunshine all over her face. Of all the women he had known, he had never come across anyone with as many fine attributes as Mei-suet. That made her somewhat special, so special that he had fallen head over heels in love with her.

The trip to the railway terminus today brought back fond memories for Jake; it was at the train station in Shanghai that he had first met Mei-suet. The date was 2nd October, 1921. He had been there for another hit: a young politician named Tang Lap – a political rival had put a contract out on him. During those days, he was a cold-blooded killer. It didn’t matter who his victims were. As long as his asking price was agreed on, he would send them a one-way ticket to hell, no question asked. His clients called him “Mr Clean”, a satirical nickname actually – he was never an upright guy, not by a long shot. More accurately, he always did a clean kill: a direct shot to the victim’s head; no prolonged suffering and no mess to the other parts of the body.

He spotted his target standing at the platform among the passengers, waiting to board the midnight train to Beijing. The politician was impeccably dressed in a black western suit. His hair was neatly combed over the top, and his moustache was perfectly trimmed.

Disguising himself as a porter, he had calmly approached the man. When their eyes met, he had whipped his gun out of his uniform pocket and fired. Tang collapsed, his life snuffed out like a candle.

Jake then pumped another two rounds into the air. Those who were deaf to the first shot could definitely hear them now. Utter chaos reigned supreme: people ran in a mad, disorderly fashion to the exits; women screamed in fear; and some dived under the benches or behind the dustbins for cover.

He smirked; that was his plan.

Amidst all the confusion he made his way to the storeroom near one of the exits. He went inside quickly, locking the door behind him; he knew this room was empty, as he had surveyed it earlier. Sixty seconds later, he was out in the open again, this time dressed in a white suit and shoes.

One more time he smirked; yup, that was another part of his plan. He could now walk past the police cordon that had been thrown around the station, even shake hands with the officers. They were seeking for a guy in a drab porter uniform, not a smartly-dressed gentleman.

“Wow! That was fast!” a female voice behind him said. It sounded kind of sultry.

He felt his heart skip a beat. Looking over his shoulder, he noticed a slender young woman sitting cross-legged on the bench a few paces from where he was. She was in a blue-coloured blouse with red stitching, and a long black skirt. Her hair was drawn to the back of her head like a ponytail, and there was a mischievous glint in her eyes. A sketch block was on her lap.

She was not part of his plan.

After regaining his composure, he walked towards her, looking over her keenly – My God, he thought, she is absolutely gorgeous! She did not stir; she just smiled at him. He then spoke in a hushed tone: “You saw me going into the storeroom? What else did you see?”

“Everything,” she whispered back.

“Including the shooting?”

“Yes, I was standing a short distance behind you when you pulled the trigger. Then I followed you here.”

“You were not scared at all? I just shot a man.”

“I was. But I followed you anyway.”

“Why?”

“I was hungry.”

He gave her a weird look. I’ve got a crazy woman tailing me, he thought, just my luck! His eyes flashed – he knew what he had to do: crazy or not, she was a witness and she had to be silenced. But there were still people around on the platform. Worse, armed guards had appeared and they were everywhere. His first priority now was to get away from here.

He grabbed the woman by the arm and pulled her beside him. “Walk with me to the gate,” he said in his normal deep voice. He then prodded his gun on her waist. “And keep your mouth shut if you want to live.”

Getting past the cordon was a snap; the police, perhaps thinking they were husband and wife, didn’t even bother taking a second look at them.

“You can let go of my arm, mister,” she said, once they were on the sidewalk. “We’re safe now. And don’t worry, I won’t run away. I can’t even if I wanted to. I don’t have the strength.”

“What do you mean?”

“I haven’t eaten in two days.”

He examined her closely. Her face was pale and she was shivering; she was not lying. Releasing her arm, he asked with much curiosity: “Why haven’t you?”

“I am stone-broke.” She then opened her sketch block – there was a colourful painting of the Shanghai Railway Station on the first page. “I am an artist and this picture is selling for only one dollar.” There was a pause. “Please buy it, I need the money for food.”

Perhaps it was his imagination, but suddenly he saw a piteous figure before him. The sight pulled at his heartstrings. He truly was a sucker for a damsel in distress, especially a pretty one.

“What’s your name?” he asked, replacing his gun in his shoulder holster.

“Li Mei-suet.”

He smiled. “Well, Mei-suet, it’s your turn to follow me. I’m buying you dinner.”

After walking two blocks in silence, they came to a shop selling pork noodles. He ordered a bowl for her and a pot of Moutai for him – he still drank Chinese wine in the absence of cognac. The two of them sat in the far corner of the shop – there were only a handful of customers at this late hour.

“So, why me?” he asked her while waiting for their orders to arrive.

“Why you what?” she responded, looking puzzled.

“Why of all people did you pick me to sell your painting?”

She fixed her gaze on him, then smiled. “I love your green eyes,” she said. “Are you Chinese, mister? I mean, you look different. And gosh, you are so tall.”

“Call me Jake,” he said. “And I am half-Chinese. My father’s an English sailor. When I was a little boy, because of my fairer skin and my strange-coloured eyes, the other kids asked me the same thing. After learning that I was biracial, they avoided me like a plague, saying I was neither Chinese nor a foreign devil. I grew up alone and unwanted.”

“Life must have been tough for you, huh?”

“On the contrary I consider it a blessing. I wouldn’t be what I am today if life had treated me otherwise.”

“You are saying you like being a … you-know-what?” she said, making a finger gun gesture.

He shrugged. “My dear ignorant girl, Shanghai may be called the Paris of the Orient but it is one of the most lawless cities on Earth,” he opined. “It’s either you kill or be killed. Living a life of a hit-man is not all that bad, it’s one way of protecting myself. In fact, I encourage everyone to be armed. More guns equals less crime, and we all will feel safer.”

When the noodles and wine finally came, Mei-suet gobbled up her food as if there were no tomorrow. Even before he had begun to drink his wine, she said, “I am done.” He looked at her bowl; it was empty, soup and all.

“Would you like to have another helping?” he asked, amused.

She nodded yes without hesitation.

While she was on her second bowl, this time eating at a slower rate, she told him a little more about herself: hailing from a small farming village, she had come to Shanghai to seek her fortune three years ago after her family were all killed in a famine. She had leased a small shop in Nanking Road to not only stay, but exhibit and sell her artworks as well; but after paying last month’s rent to her money-grubbing landlady, she was now penniless.

He was surprised at the casual manner in which their conversation was going. It was like they were sharing a cocktail and exchanging good-natured banter at a party! What am I doing? Why am I telling her my life story? I hardly know this woman. In fact I’m supposed to kill her! Yet he honestly didn’t know. Maybe it was her big beautiful eyes; one could tell a lot about a person by looking at their eyes. And hers told him he could trust her.

“Am I next on your list?” Mei-suet asked, as he walked her back to her shop. “I saw you committing a murder. And you gave me your name. When you do that, it means you are planning to do me in. That’s how you guys operate, isn’t it?”

“You know the hit-man’s code well.”

“Everyone here knows the hit-man’s code,” Mei-suet scoffed. “So, are you going to kill me?”

“I might.”

“I don’t think you will,” she answered, her voice calm and collected.

“And why the hell won’t I?” he said, trying to sound menacing.

“Because …” she stopped, then gave him a sweet smile that shone brighter than the stars above, her dimpled cheeks setting his heart aflutter. He was wholly charmed, and he wished her smile would stay forever.

“Yeah, that’s a mighty good reason,” he said. “I’ll go along with that.”

Jake swirled his glass gently then took a sip of the cognac. He switched his attention to a framed painting next to their wedding photograph – it was an illustration of the Shanghai Railway Station; he had bought it from Mei-suet that night. And he had paid her with a ten-dollar bill, telling her to keep the change. He could still recall her reaction clearly: beaming with delight, she had danced around him like a ballerina and said, “Oh wow! Ten dollars! That kind of money can feed me for a month. Thank you, thank you so much!”

With that thought, Jake began to lose control of his breathing. His eyes clouded. Getting up, he wiped his cheek with the back of his hand. It came away wet.