Death Waits in Shanghai

By Wayne Carey

The senator’s daughter went missing in San Francisco’s Chinatown. The FBI turned to Johnny Falco for help.

Falco escaped the life of a gangster at sixteen, finding a new path in the Shaolin Temple in China. Now he seeks to atone for his mobster father’s violence. It sounded like the right thing to do, until the search for eighteen-year-old Kristine Mansfield led from a Chinese tong to the triads of China.

Falco and his friends — former IRA terrorist Flanagan and Zulu prince Mzoma — follow a tong leader’s son and his sister across the Pacific Ocean, from Hawaii to Japan to Shanghai and Hong Kong. As they dodge numerous attempts on their lives, the chances of Johnny Falco (and the girl) ever returning to sunny California seem increasingly dim.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bold Venture Press
• Release date: Apr 28, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215355503

Book preview

Copyright

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

About the author

About the publisher

Copyright

Audrey Parente, editor

Book design and cover by Rich Harvey

© 2023 Wayne Carey. All rights reserved.

Bold Venture Press paperback edition, May 2023.

Available in paperback edition

This is a work of fiction. Though some characters and locales may have been inspired by history, the events and characters depicted herein are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

When I let go of what I am,

I become what I might be.

Lao Tzu

Death Waits in Shanghai

1

San Francisco July 1931

Giovanni Falco!

Falco heard a rough voice call his name as he and Mzoma entered the speakeasy. He had never been to this particular establishment before, but he had heard the jazz band previously and had enjoyed their music. Falco had gained the password through friends in the jazz community. He expected to be given a hard time with Mzoma accompanying him. The big Zulu, his muscular frame squeezed into a tailored three-piece suit, was often refused entry to certain places because of the color of his skin. This place must care more for the color of his money. Or the doorman merely thought he was Falco’s bodyguard, since Falco was not physically imposing at his five-eight height and youthful appearance.

Falco had the classic Italian looks of his parents, black wavy hair, narrow face, generous mouth, long straight nose just a little too big for his young years. He was deceptively slender, the suit hiding his steel muscles.

The heavy-set man in the cheap suit who had called out his name bounded up the steps toward the door. Falco didn’t recognize his sneering face but the man looked vaguely familiar, so he prepared himself for any type of attack, calmed his breathing, and loosened his limbs.

It’s Giovanni Falco, ain’t it?

John, Falco corrected, cringing at his birth name. John Falco. My friends call me Johnny. You can call me Mister Falco.

The man snorted. His accent was Brooklyn. He was a long way from home, but then so was Falco, though he’d been a lot further in recent years.

Don’t get cute with me, kid. I remember you from the old neighborhood. What are you now, twenty?

Falco shrugged. Twenty-five.

The man’s brow furrowed in rage as he stepped closer to Falco, trying to use his bulk for intimidation. I’m Joey Romano. Remember me? No? Your old man rubbed out my pop five years ago. I had to leave New York. Ended up in Frisco and opened this place, but I went through hell because of your old man.

Falco frowned and let out his breath slowly. Listen, Joey. Listen carefully. I was not in the country five years ago. I hopped a freighter when I was sixteen, left New York, and haven’t been back since. The reason being my father’s business. So, I sympathize with you.

Romano reached under his jacket and pulled out a forty-five Colt automatic, jabbing it into Falco’s chest.

I don’t care, kid. You’re Charlie Falco’s kid, and I’m going to blow you away like he did my old man, and your bodyguard here won’t be able to do a thing about it.

Mzoma chuckled in his deep resonant voice, then spoke with his cultured British accent. My good sir, I am not his bodyguard.

Romano looked at the huge Zulu in puzzlement. What?

Falco grinned and tossed his thumb over his shoulder. Mzoma is a Zulu prince, from a long line of kings going way back to Shaka. His family has diamond mines and he was educated at Cambridge. I saved his life once and haven’t been able to get rid of him since. He doesn’t protect me.

No, Mzoma said. Mr. Falco protects me.

Romano’s mouth hung open as he stared at Falco.

In a swift movement, Falco reached out, pushed the gun aside, twisted against Romano’s thumb, freeing the weapon, and turning it upon its former owner. Romano stepped back, eyes wide, hands in the air.

Falco pulled the slide off the gun, popped the bullet from the chamber, then ejected the magazine. He held out the pieces for Romano.

"Look, you want to shoot my father for what he did to your father, that’s fine with me. I’ll be the first to applaud you. Get it through your head that I had nothing to do with it. I have nothing to do with my father’s business. I haven’t been part of that family for nine years, since my mother passed away, and if I went back to New York, I’ll likely end up like your father. Capish?"

A stunned Romano took the pieces of his gun in both hands and nodded slowly. Sure, kid. I get it. I’ve never seen anyone do what you just did. You’re fast. Look, how about a truce? Whatever you want, it’s on the house.

Oh, I don’t drink. I’m just here for the music, but thanks anyway. Mzoma might want some wine, though.

Sure thing, Mr. Falco.

Johnny. Call me Johnny.

Falco patted Romano on the shoulder and proceeded down the short flight of steps to the lounge, Mzoma trailing behind.

Romano shoved the parts of the forty-five into his jacket pockets and hurried to catch up with the young man, his belly bouncing. He waved to an empty table just to one side of the small stage.

This is reserved for some of Frisco’s finest, but it’s yours tonight, kid.

He crooked his finger toward a young girl with short blond hair and an even shorter cocktail dress.

Millie! Take care of Mr. Falco and his guest. Whatever they want.

Sure Mr. Romano, came the girl’s squeaky reply.

Falco reached out his hand. Romano took it, then winced at the strength of the grip.

Thanks, Joey. We appreciate it.

Any time, kid. Sorry for the misunderstanding. Don’t worry. Won’t happen again.

I understand completely, Joey.

Say, I could use someone like you. Someone fast like that and who doesn’t show any fear. Need a job?

I appreciate it, Joey. I’ll keep it in mind, but I’m good.

They sat just as the four black musicians came through and climbed onto the stage. A thin young woman stood among them and belted out songs in a strong voice.

First came Louis Armstrong’s What Did I Do to Be So Black and Blue, then Shout, Sister, Shout, followed by half a dozen other hits. Mzoma had never heard jazz before, preferring classical music, but seemed to be enjoying it. Normally stoic, he nodded his head occasionally and Falco caught him tapping the toe of one polished shoe.

Falco had noticed a familiar face at the other end of the lounge, seated with two others in the same nondescript blue suits. The man was watching him rather than the singer and the musicians. Falco readied himself for the inevitable confrontation once the band took a break.

After the applause died down and the band members vanished into the back rooms of the speakeasy, the man stood up, smashed his cigarette into the glass ashtray, straightened his jacket, and wound his way through the crowded tables.

Without a word, he pulled out one of the empty chairs at Falco’s table and sat down, his eyes never leaving the young man.

Falco waved his hand. Mzoma, may I introduce Agent Fred Kelly of the FBI.

Mzoma nodded.

A pleasure, Kelly returned. I thought you were in Hong Kong. What brings you back to the States?

Just a little business. You’ll understand if I don’t give you any details.

Another government agency, eh?

Not this time. A private concern. Artifact retrieval. But you didn’t come over to ask me about my visit to your fair city. To what do we owe the pleasure of your company, Agent Kelly?

Kelly glanced around the crowded room. Drop the agent stuff, will you, Johnny? Do you want everyone to think there’s going to be a raid? I’m here strictly for pleasure.

Falco could smell whiskey on the agent’s breath but saw his eyes were clear. I doubt that.

I saw what you did to that fat guy at the door. You know, I have never seen Joe Romano that impressed over someone. He was ready to kill you and now he’s your best friend.

I noticed you jumping to my rescue when he pulled that piece on me.

Kelly smiled. You can take care of yourself. You’ve dropped half a dozen guys in a matter of minutes. What is it you do? That stuff you learned in China?

Kung Fu. I was honored to spend five years in a Shaolin monastery, after working freighters grew tiresome. I was in a very dark place at the time. The Shaolin monks helped me through it.

You speak Chinese, don’t you?

Passingly. He spoke it like a native.

Spend any time in Chinatown?

Some. With living in China, it feels more like home than any other neighborhood. Surprisingly, they are more accepting to Mzoma than the predominately white areas.

You aren’t still hanging around that IRA bomber, are you?

Haven’t seen Flanagan for some time. And he wasn’t a bomber, just a general all around trouble maker. Do you want me to tell him you’re looking for him?

We don’t have any warrants out for him. We just like to keep an eye on his whereabouts. If you see him or know where he is, I don’t want to know about it. I don’t want to deal with the paperwork.

That’s not why you came to our table, Falco pointed out.

Kelly straightened his thin black tie. Look, Johnny. You helped us out before a couple of times. Maybe you can help us again. My partners over there and I have been given a tough case. A kidnapping.

I’m not a G-man.

No. But you know these Chinese people. Know anything about tongs?

I know they’re dangerous. What does a tong have to do with a kidnapping?

That’s what we want to know. Trouble is, we can’t get any of our guys into Chinatown. No one will talk to us. A young woman has been kidnapped, the daughter of a senator. Might be a tong involved. We don’t know if they were hired by someone or were acting on their own. No idea where the girl is, whether she’s alive or dead.

No ransom note? Falco asked.

Nope. Nothing.

You expect me to search Chinatown for her?

A blond-haired, blue-eyed eighteen-year-old might stand out among all those Chinese. Trouble is, so do we. We can’t get any information. She disappeared from a restaurant. The only witnesses were college friends she was dining with. They saw men in black outfits, wearing hoods and masks, grab her. They even had swords. Everyone else conveniently saw nothing. Care to help out Uncle Sam one more time?

No.

No? Kelly asked

Mzoma, across the table, rolled his eyes. He knew what was coming.

However, I will look into it for other reasons. For one, you are an honest cop. Since I’ve been back in the States off and on, I’ve seen too much corruption at every levels. Second, if any Chinese are accused of the crime, the established law enforcement agencies tend to blame all Chinese. This could cause problems for innocent people. It’s the kind of narrow-minded prejudice that passed the current immigration laws. There could be whites taking the law into their own hands, which could lead to riots, vandalism, deaths. Has anything been in the papers?

We’ve been holding the reporters off, so we don’t spook the kidnappers.

Okay. I need the details. Everything you have.

2

The next morning, Falco went by himself to the FBI field office to meet Kelly. The agent gave Falco a copy of the file he had on the kidnapping, which included names of those witnesses interviewed and a photo of the young woman. Kristine Mansfield was an attractive blond student studying political science at the University of San Francisco. The daughter of California Senator Jeffrey Mansfield, she came from old money. The senator did not have a reputation for corruption but was outspoken for immigration restrictions and the country’s neutrality in world affairs. The file contained no indication whether or not the daughter held her father’s convictions. Kelly could not offer any theory as to the reason she was targeted. No ransom had been demanded, no calls made, in the two days since the abduction.

After talking with Kelly, Falco walked down the street and found a phone booth. He called Mzoma at their hotel.

Get Flanagan. I want him to talk to the two students the girl was having dinner with. He passed on the girls’ names and addresses. He could trust Flanagan to use his charm on the college students.

After hanging up, he flagged a taxi to take him to Chinatown.

The Jade Palace was on the edge of Chinatown, a restaurant frequented by tourists and many of the city’s white population. Classic Chinese decor tastefully done, with young waitresses in tight, traditional high-collared embroidered silk qipao dresses. The establishment had a decent reputation.

The taxi left Falco off a block away and he walked the rest of the distance, hands in trouser pockets, fedora low over his brow. From the shadows of the hat’s brim, his narrowed eyes caught every detail. He walked past the Jade Palace, which was just opening for lunch. He passed laundries and smaller take-away restaurants, then a newsstand on the corner that catered to Chinese as well as English.

Rounding the corner, he headed down the alley.

He paused behind the Jade Palace, studied the back door and it’s its heavy deadlocks, the two rusted dumpsters on either side. The smell of decay was heavy. Flies buzzed and a stray cat scurried into hiding.

He continued, rounding the corner, and returning to the front of the building. This time, he entered.

The pretty hostess greeted him with a smile. She wore a long red qipao dress, slit up the side and embroidered with gold, black and white roses.

"Ni hao," he said, bowing his head slightly.

Her eyes widened at his Chinese greeting. "Ni hao," she returned in a high-pitched sing-song voice.

He continued in Mandarin, inquiring if her owner or manger were available. She bowed her head respectfully. Yes. She is in the kitchen at the moment. Are you police?

He smiled reassuringly at her. No, but I would like to ask her a few questions.

Her face grew puzzled. Please wait. I will let her know you are here. Your name?

Falco. John Falco.

There were no other customers this early. He smelled the cooking from the kitchen and heard the clatter of utensils and the chatter of Chinese.

The hostess returned, leading a slender woman in her early forties, a touch of gray streaking her short black hair. She was also dressed in a traditional style, but her blue silk dress slightly shorter and more conservative than the hostess’ garment.

May I help you? she asked in English. Her expression was one of puzzlement rather than curiosity. Her tone suggested impatience. She was busy and wanted to get back to her business.

Falco spoke in Chinese. Madame, forgive the interruption. I need to ask you some questions if you have the time.

Her brows rose at his words. She stood a little straighter and now eyed him with curiosity. She motioned to the nearest table. Please, come and sit down. I have a minute to give you. She now spoke in Chinese.

He sat down opposite her. Two days ago, there was a kidnapping.

Her eyes narrowed and she continued in Mandarin. You are not a policeman. And reporters in San Francisco do not speak fluent Chinese. Your accent says you are very fluent. You lived in China, yes?

The conversation was completely in Chinese. Yes. I live in Hong Kong, only visiting San Francisco. I am not the police nor a reporter.

Then what are you?

Someone who wants to help.

She looked at him for some time, her brow knitted. You are a young man. Very young. But your eyes are old. And your ways, your spirit … it is not like other Westerners.

I spent time with the Shaolin, he explained.

She pursed her lips. They do not make a habit of accepting foreigners among them.

They made an exception. I was a particularly troubled case. The monks taught me how to find peace.

She smiled then. You were greatly honored. Your spirit must be special.

I don’t know about that, but I was honored, yes.

She placed her hands on the table, entwining her long fingers, leaning forward a little. What do you want to know?

Were you here during the kidnapping?

She stiffened. Yes. But I saw nothing. I was in the office in the back. It was over by the time I came out. I told the police everything.

I’m not with the police. I have no authority.

If you cannot do anything, why are you asking?

I didn’t say I couldn’t do anything. Your staff saw nothing?

No.

Tell me, whose territory is this?

Her brow knitted. I do not understand.

He leaned back. You pay protection money. Every business along here does. Which tong has this territory, this neighborhood?

She leaned closer, eyes narrowing. Do not ask such things.

I grew up in New York. My father would send enforcers around to the different businesses in the neighborhoods he ran. If the owners didn’t pay for protection, then their place would get trashed. Windows smashed, merchandise destroyed. Maybe a leg or arm would get broken. The tongs do the same thing. I grew up in that kind of environment.

You would break legs?

Me? No. My father tried to get me involved. I ran errands when I was little. But I’m not that big to be intimidating. My brother is much larger. Frank took to that type of work. He was a natural bully. He played football in high school, till he dropped out. Or maybe he was expelled. I never knew. Anyway, I know how the business works. The tongs have their territories. Sometimes they fight over their borders. But they know whatever happens within their respective areas. The tong that you pay for protection either knew who committed the kidnapping or they did it themselves. Which tong do you pay?

Her eyes lowered with fear. I cannot talk about this.

She moved to get up but he placed a hand over hers.

I am here to help. I will not put you in danger.

She shook her head. You do not understand.

I understand better than anyone else. I grew up in a mob family until I ran away. I saw what goes on in China. Shanghai, Hong Kong. I live in Hong Kong. I only need a name … someone I can contact.

You would face the tong?

I need to find the young girl who was abducted. The local tong is the key.

She stood now, straight and defiant. "I cannot help you. I do not know what