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There was no sign of the men on the street.

Stubbornly, Anyu searched, weaving between a fleet of cars and carriages and the crowd of pedestrians, and was nearly run over by a donkey pulling a cart loaded with bolts of silk.

She peered into the clothes shops, the apothecary, and the barbershop—not a shadow of Mr. Du or his men.

She couldn’t tell how long she had searched when a young man in front of a teahouse with a gray tile roof waved at her.

She ignored him; she wasn’t feeling up to talking to a stranger.

Then she realized the youth looked familiar. He was the gangster she had helped escape. He was pushing a bicycle, wearing a white shirt and black pants. Out in the open, he looked decent, even friendly. She went back to the teahouse just as he mounted his bicycle.

“I knew we’d meet again. Remember me? I’m Confucius,” he said, tossing his shoulder-length hair.

“Like the ancient teacher?” she blurted out. What kind of name was that?

“That’s him! But I’m younger.”

She would have laughed if she hadn’t been so intent on finding Mr. Du.

“ You peng zi yuan fang lai, bu yi yue hu ? ” he intoned.

“What?”

“It means ‘Isn’t it a happy thing that a friend from afar comes to visit?’ It’s from the old Confucius.”

Anyu cleared her throat. “All right. I’m Anyu. Listen, I could use your help. I’m looking for Mr. Du. He might have passed here a moment ago with his men. Did you happen to see him?” She described Mr. Du’s blue robe and his triangular face.

“Oh, you don’t have to tell me what he looks like.”

“You know him?”

“Everybody in Shanghai knows him. He is the leader of the Green Gang, the lord of the underworld. You didn’t know?”

“He came to visit my shop.” Then, hurriedly, she explained what had happened in the shop. “He took the necklace. Do you know where to find him?”

Confucius whistled. “You have terrible luck, you know. But find Mr. Du? Then what? Take the necklace back? No, no. No one takes anything back from Mr. Du.”

“I need to know where he is. Can you help me?” It was ironic, but she was glad he was also a gangster.

“I wouldn’t help you even if I could. And I can’t!”

“I . . . I . . .”

“You haven’t been in Shanghai for long, have you?

Mr. Du is a powerful man, a dangerous man.

He takes whatever he likes—gold, restaurants, houses, women, and men’s lives.

Anything. If he took your necklace, consider it a gift and let it go.

It’s just a necklace. It’s not worth dying for.

” Confucius lifted the kickstand with his foot and began to pedal.

She lunged after him and grabbed a handlebar. He lost his balance and crashed to the ground.

“What are you doing!” He rose, rubbing his knee.

“I saved you! You have to help me.”

He pulled up his bicycle and groaned. One of the spokes was bent.

“I need to get the necklace back, Confucius. It’s important. The girl who I work for is very upset. I have to help her.” She added in a demeaning, pleading tone that she hoped she wouldn’t regret later: “Please.”

“You really want to go? Mr. Du is everywhere.”

“What do you mean?”

“Shanghai is Mr. Du’s lair. He has many secret homes and offices. He also owns gambling houses, opium dens, and brothels. But you won’t have a chance to step into any of those. They are heavily guarded. Even if you get in, you won’t be able to get out.”

“If you give me a location, I’ll find him.”

“I’m warning you. You’ll lose your head. Don’t blame me.”

“I won’t blame you.”

He sighed. “Fine. Hop on.”

Anyu looked at the bicycle; there was no seat. She would need to sit on the top frame. She had never ridden a bicycle before, and of course, any decent girl wouldn’t publicly ride with a boy. What would people say? What about her reputation? “Is it far?”

“It’s about two hours’ walk. What? Are you too shy to ride with me?” Confucius said.

“I’m not shy.”

“Then why are you standing there? Fine. You walk there. See you in two hours.”

She looked around. A few people in the nearby shops were watching her curiously; it occurred to her that they’d gossip about her the moment she was out of sight. But why should she worry? She wasn’t in Harbin anymore.

Anyu went to Confucius and sat on the top metal bar of the frame, her hands gripping the handlebars, her body maintaining a discreet distance from him. “Let’s go.”

“Hold on!”

If Anyu had been given other options, she wouldn’t have ridden on the bicycle.

It was a hazardous dive into a sea of cursing crowds, a blind sail through wet laundry hanging in narrow alleys, and a maddening race amid honking cars and speeding carriages.

She gripped the bars for dear life, her bottom sore against the bare metal.

She could have screamed and asked to slow down but held back for her dignity.

When Confucius finally stopped, she jumped off, her heart pounding, her legs stiff, her bottom aching.

“We’re here,” Confucius said.

Here?

They were in an alley lined with rows of rickshaws and fruit vendors with tarpaulin-covered carts.

The building Confucius pointed at had a tall stone arch decorated with round medallion reliefs and a massive gate painted in a bold shade of red.

In front of it paced back and forth a few burly men in green caps holding clubs.

As she watched, the gate opened, a man in a long robe staggered out, cursing, and the men with clubs hoisted him into a rickshaw.

“Come back when you have money,” they mumbled.

A gambling house.

“I don’t see Mr. Du’s car or his men. I don’t think he’s here.

” Confucius sat on his bicycle with the kickstand down, squinting at the nearby buildings, the afternoon sun hanging over their gray rooftops.

This narrow street was teeming with buzz-cut men holding placards printed with black characters saying “Play Slot Machines at the Six Nations!” “Win the Lottery Now!” “Place Your Bet on Dog Race, Free Drinks!”

“Where else could he be?”

“I don’t know.” Confucius shrugged. “You speak Chinese with a horrid Northerner’s accent. Where are you from?”

“I need to know where Mr. Du is.”

“So you’re from Beijing?”

“No. Harbin.”

“Where is that? Wait. Do you mean Harbin near Siberia? The place where your snot will freeze like a fossil? That’s far! Why did you come to Shanghai?”

She glared at him. “Where can we find him, Confucius?”

“He could be in his favorite opium den.”

“Do you know where it is?”

“Does the sun rise from the east?”

“How far is it?”

Confucius sighed.

From a distance, the building resembled a palace hall, with its stately vermilion pillars, glazed orange roof tiles, and upturned flying eaves. When Anyu drew closer, she could see the red silky curtains and the four-poster daybeds. On the daybeds reclined robed men smoking long pipes.

A man wearing a black melon cap rushed out of the building and shooed her away—the den barred women from entering.

Night had fallen, and still, she didn’t see Mr. Du, his car, or his men.

At her insistence, Confucius agreed to take her to one final place.

“So why did you come to Shanghai? You haven’t told me.” He pedaled with ease, one hand steering.

“What’s the place we are going?” She held on to the handlebars.

“You’ll know when we get there. Are you going to tell me? Why?”

“Are we there yet?” She would have walked, but the daylight had vanished, and the streets were dark. She didn’t want to get lost.

“Almost. I get it. You are a widow.”

“I’m sixteen years old!”

“Many girls younger than you became widows. So you don’t have a family? Is that it? Is that why you live with the Russians?”

He had been spying on her! “I work for them. They’re good to me. They treat me well.”

“But they’re foreigners. They can’t be good to you, and they stink. Didn’t you smell them? They also carry diseases.”

“That’s absurd. You smell worse than them.”

Confucius sighed. “I have a quote for you, but I won’t say it. Anyway. Here we are.”

The two-story building was beautiful, with a long corridor wrapping around the first floor and strings of red lanterns hung on the eaves.

Some girls were pacing in the corridor, clad in tightly fitted colorful dresses that only reached their knees, their arms bare, their lips red in the glow of the lanterns.

They swung something in their hands, handkerchiefs, fans, and swayed from one side of the corridor to another.

Even though she was across the street, Anyu could hear laughter and a pleasant tune of lute and clappers dancing in the air.

A brothel.

Anyu slipped off the bicycle, her cheeks growing warm.

“There you are.” Confucius got off but still had his hands on the handlebars.

“Are you sure he’s inside?” Her mother would have forbidden her to be near the house of ill repute.

“Look.” He thrust his head. “In the corridor near the tree.”

It was too dim; she could only make out a few men’s figures, but there was Mr. Du’s car and two of his men leaning against it, smoking and talking. She recognized the man in the collarless jacket.

“They’re going inside,” she said.

“I bet Mr. Du is inside as well.”

“I’ll go in.”

“You’re kidding!”

“I have to. I need to get the necklace.”

“Fine. You go in. I’m going home.” He got on his bicycle.

He would abandon her! So be it. She would retrieve the necklace herself.

Anyu went to a cigarette vendor on the street and bought a packet of cigarettes with the money she had. Then she went up to the porch. No one stopped her—the girls, fanning their faces with their handkerchiefs, were busy chatting with their clients.