1965-08-18 - Shanghai Ostentation, 1922
Summary: An evening of champagne, tete-a-tete, and intrigue at one of the premier dance halls in Shanghai.
Related: Shanghai Conciliating, 1922
Theme Song: None
lamont ambrose 


If there's anything to be said about Shanghai this evening, it's that the place is swinging — the dance palace, rather. The Black Cat, on modern day's Xizang Road, is the place to be seen with partner on arm. The cover's high for the market, but it's no matter if you're the proposed clientele. Upon entering, overcoats and fur stoles are taken by waiters in crisp black and white outfits. On the stage, the small orchestra works up a sweat as they play American jazz. The majority of the populace is Chinese, all of the upper class looking to take a night out. Interspersed within the guests at both tables and on polished wooden dance floor are foreigners.

Ambrose is one such man. At his table, he's leaning on an elbow in closer to hear the words of a very pretty young woman in a knee-length sheath dress in a brilliant purple, bright and glossy as a blackberry. She's got her curves and even as he glances back at her, smiling in that crooked way of his, his eyes wander. The neckline of the dress is chaste, but oh — the curves. Golden skin and raven-dark hair along with lustrous brown eyes speak to a heritage of the Ganges and farther west yet, perhaps. She wears her hair in the fashionable bob of the time, sporting an Art Deco lotus bangle in gold and amethyst tucked up and behind one ear, and her grin twinkles through her entire expression. The drinks at their hands appear to be champagne in flutes.

The young man sitting next to her has managed to find a suit with tails. Find — more like…Suggest that someone let him borrow it for an extended period of time. It has nuances of the high fashion of the earlier years of the 1900s and, thus, marks him out. The single-breasted tuxedo vest with its deep U-shaped dip has its collars. The cumberbund is white to match the silk shirt beneath it and also the evening gloves on his hands, all the better to attempt to mute the Bane; whether or not its a matter of success in avoiding touching skin or the knowledge that they might work, who knows? It's the cravat that gives his habitual fashions away entirely. Who wears a cravat anymore? It's possible that his guest thinks it quaint and charming, silly man with his coiffed hair relatively managed for once instead of let loose willy-nilly beneath his headscarf.

*

There's the skeleton at the feast, so to speak. Lamont's there to meet with someone, several someones, it seems. A table full of men, in varying degrees of inebriation. He's in his own severely tailored black tie, hair slicked back. It only makes his features look both sharper and somehow more delicate, adding shades of youth he'd apparently lost. He heads for the table - no date, apparently - and only pauses a beat when he spots Ambrose. There's a polite nod, but no attempt to come closer. Only a wicked gleam of amusement at the sight of the young lady. So Ambrose isn't entirely chaste after all.

*

The young woman leans in to whisper something further to Ambrose and the young man laughs, expression suffused with delight. He himself pulls away in order to take another rather large sip of his champagne and lets his eyes scan the room. Old habits die hard. He finds the familiar face and pauses with the glass near to resting on his lip. Eyebrows lift high.

It's enough to make his companion look over and her eyes flicker over Kent quickly. By her reaction, she's not sure what to make of him. She leans in and snags Ambrose's attention, like as not asking him a question. He sets down the champagne glass and replies. Whatever the answer, she's quietly intrigued. Kent's watched by those dark eyes as he arrives at the table.

*

She might well know of him. He's notorious, after all, in both the upper echelons and the lower reaches of the foreign community. Kent's already turned to take his seat at the table, his cool manner a contrast to that of those already at the table. Some of the White Russians, a number of the Viennese Jews - a detente of a kind, with the Europeans. A glass of wine is set down before him, and he raises it to his tablemates before taking a sip. There's a faintly incredulous look in the eyes of some of the others at the table. This guy's supposed to be dead in a ditch….and here he is, without a scratch on him.

*

"…in passing, yes," Ambrose replies quietly as his companion asks yet another question. "Why do you ask?"

"He's supposed to be dead," the woman nearly hisses back, leaning in yet again. She watches Kent like a hawk now. "I heard about it from…a friend." She gets a lingering look from the young man in his suit and takes on a demure air. "You do not get all of the answers, Ambrose."

"I can be patient," he counters, smiling to himself. His eyes slide back to the other man at this table and boy howdy — he's wondering what on earth Kent is up to now.

"If you know him, introduce me?" Ambrose swallows his mouthful of champagne fast enough to make himself cough; it tickles his nose and he sniffs before replying,

"Introduce you to Ying Ko? Janaya, I honestly would not tangle with the man. If you've heard half of what I have…" She gives him an arch look. "…upon your head be it. Who am I to attempt to dissuade such a woman?" Janaya laughs lightly and offers him her hand. He takes it in his white gloves, very much working at keeping the Bane subdued, and both to begin walking over to Kent's table.

*

Kent is in the process of explaining things to the men at his table - well, mostly men. A few ladies are present, including a redhead with dazzingly pale skin, not a freckle to be seen.

He's using a flawless, accentless French….and by the increasingly uneasy look of his tablemates, upsetting a few plans in the process. Supposed to be dead, indeed. The dynamic of the table is slowly altering, and in his favor….and there's a rising, unholy glee behind the cool facade. Someone is being a bastard-flavored bastard this evening, for Ambrose's efforts have polished his legend to a very high degree.

*

Ambrose arrives at the far side of the gathering, within easy sight of Kent and much of the table. With Janaya on his arm, he executes a flawless nod of his head and pauses along enough to be certain that he's not speaking overtop the other man. Surely this gives him time to look about the gathering and see if he knows a few faces. Once he senses his opportunity, he speaks — in French as well.

"«Ying Ko, good evening. You look well.»" Why not help the bastard-flavored bastard further yet? Like as not, he's a mystery in and of himself. Mao You has no face, just a name and an effect like a wet blanket on conversational fun — the boogieman of the antique black market.

*

Lamont's smile is an oily, unpleasant thing. So much for the sympathetic stoic denned up in that absurd carved bed. «Thank you,» he says, with an air of magnanimity. Li himself is not there, but at least one at the table is somewhat in his pay. «I do feel very well indeed. I hope you can say the same.» A polite nod to Janaya. She's not someone he knows. «You're just in time to provide a pleasant diversion from very tedious business. Do join us.»

*

"«We shall, thank you,»" Ambrose replies, still formal but for the faint lines of concern about the corners of his eyes. He knows the need for a mask of business, but that's just…plain eerie. He's seen a facet of this behavior, but see it on full display? It gives him a finger-drag of chill down his spine. Janaya holds her own and sits after her companion pull out a chair to allow her seating. He takes up a space beside her, giving the man to his left another nod of greeting. Then his attention's back to Kent once more. His blue eyes silently ask of Kent what on earth he's up to.

*

That's a question being asked by others at the table, it's clear, by the way the eyes of the others dart. Kent proceeds to introduce them - Afanasyev, Ivanov, Leibowitz, Meyer, and Kulikova. The last being that redheaded lady who gives Janaya a feline little smile that has some commiseration in it. «Now, surely we don't want to spoil the mood with more talk of business. Meyer, I hear you've got a new dog who'll chew up the track at the Canidrome.» Which is the entertainment complex in Shanghai, at least partially devoted to greyhound racing. It seems to break the ice, and Meyer's glad to seize on the change of subject, singing the praises of his new bitch, Double Lucky.

*

Ambrose marks the faces and the names — and also notes that he's not introduced in turn. Interesting…allowing the others to simmer in their own stewing of curiosity. His companion, Janaya, returns the redhead's smile more faintly; she seems to be realizing that she's out of her depth here. This is clearly more than just 'business'. The Jackal leans back in his chair, frowning to himself at the talk of greyhound racing.

"«Yes, I've heard tell of this Double Lucky. She runs a good race. A fine bloodline too, I hear. You'll be whelping her soon enough, I'm sure.»" He gives Meyer a polite smile. "«Have a stud in mind?»"

*

«I'm remiss in my manners. This is the Jackal,» Lamont says, with a kind of deliberate absent-minded airiness. Oh, silly me, so forgetful. Nevermind that glitter of amusement has never left the gray eyes. «His fair companion I don't yet know myself.» That name has an impact - now all eyes are fixed on Ambrose. Apparently that's a name that's known here….and one that bears its own weight. Meyer rallies. «Not yet. She's got a few years of racing in her before I retire her for breeding, or so I hope,» he says, gamely.

*

Ambrose's lips slowly slide into a cool smile, the automatic response to such a spotlighted introduction — and couched in such terms, oh my. Even Janaya is giving him a wide-eyed look now, her pert lips dropped open the slightest. Apparently, he introduced himself as elsewise. He nods to both sides of the table and says quietly, once the greyhound owner is finished speaking,

"«Well met, those present, and may I introduce Janaya.»" The woman nods once shortly and then drops her eyes to her lap. Marking this, Ambrose then turns his attention back Meyers. "«I hope you find a worthy stud, Meyers. If I may…look for a bloodline that reaches to the West and beyond, to that of the Tigris and Euphrates. The Bedouin there raise such dogs as would be stunning here on the tracks. I have seen them course after the wild antelope in temperatures that would stun even the heartiest of hounds and return merely panting. Your bitch would have pups to outrace Hermes himself.»"

*

Now the Russians have all but pricked up their ears at that. Their French is excellent, though - no heavy accent. But then, this is the endof the age when all cultured Russians spoke and wrote French. «Only purebred greyhounds» says Ivanov. He's a bullet-headed man with hair cropped far shorter than is the fashion for men, now. As if he'd had a career as a prizefighter. «Or we would be cleaning up the track with wolfhounds.» His companion is an icy blond with cheekbones stark enough to cut, and pale eyes. There's a faint resemblance to Black. «There's a thought» says the other Russian, musingly. «Novelty, unofficial races - any kind of dog could enter. Play it as a joke - have society ladies race their poodles and PEkingese. Or do real mutts out there - plenty of breeds will course….» Meyer's got dark, curly hair, a crooked nose, an infectious smile. «I like it,» he says, thumping the table. His companion, Leibowitz, is jerked out of his reverie. He's a scholarly type, with round glasses and a little pencil moustache, dark hair slicked back.

*

The Jackal continues wearing his small, enigmatic smile. Kent gets another lingering look before he adds his own ten cents to matters.

"«Granted, crossing a greyhound with a poodle will net you nothing but derision and jokes about jumping through flaming hoops, but gentlemen.»" And Ambrose lifts his hand with a small tilt of his head. "«Know you of the Sloughi Moghrebi? Or perhaps the Azawakh?»" He names the breeds with not a single stumble over the pronunciation. "«Coursing hounds with build so alike to a greyhound that…an official might not know the difference were the pups to retain a hint of the sire's physique. Mind, it would cost you a pretty penny. Only the chiefs of the Bedouins were and still are allowed to own the Sloughi. They are no mere dog,»" he explains almost slyly. Oh yes. Let's toss some real chaos into the gambling of the hounds.

*

«I've seen them in Cairo,» says Meyer, after a moment, nodding. «They are like you say. I'll have to talk to some of my family there, see if we can import some…hard to find, though. It's like purebred Arab horses.» Kent's listening keenly. «I wish we had space for proper horse-racing in Shanghai,» he sighs. Leibowitz is sipping his glass of champagne and looking thoughtful. The Russians are grinning at one another like conspirators. «Good idea, Jackal,» says Ivanov, heavily.

*

"«I have a good idea every now and then,»" Ambrose allows with a cheeky little grin. "«If you end up…blessing the bloodlines as such, think of me fondly. I have no recent connections within the world of the Arab horses, unfortunately, but…who knows. I may come across someone yet in my travels.»"

Janaya leans in to whisper into his ear suddenly and he nods, whispering something back. "Thank you. Good night," she says to the table quietly as a whole before excusing herself. Ambrose watches her go and then once he's lost sight of her to the masses, he turns back in his chair. A shrug and upturned fingers communicates an accepted understanding on his part before he places his gloved hand back on the table.

*

Kulikova's been watching Ambrose silently, eyes growing ever brighter. Janaya's departure has her speaking, finally. "«You're not from here,»" she asks Ambrose. "«But then, none of us ever are.»" A ripple of polite laughter from the others. "«England?»"

*

His eyes slide to the redhead now. "«In regards to my birth, yes. I am the child of the consulate-bound, raised beyond the grey and dreary hearth of England. I can't claim that my childhood was ever lacking for entertainment. My…friends thought it fun to hone their reflexes by testing the strike of a cobra. Open the basket, lift the lid, can one touch the serpent's nose before it lashes out? Dreadful fun,»" Ambrose says, even going so far as to chuckle rather warmly. Of course, what sneaks into his fluent French but the subtle nuances of the Fertile Crescent.

*

"Fascinating," she says, dropping into English, lightly accented. Apparently it's time. Kent's sipping his wine and listening. Mostly watching the Russian pair, who continue to regard him with distinct unease. "What brings you to Shanghai? Most of us are fleeing revolution, in one way or another." There's a sigh from one of the Russians, the hard-faced blond, Afanasyev.

*

"Would you believe me if I said a desperate need for adventure?" Ambrose replies to her in light tease. By the set of his lips, he's trying not to smile…or perhaps making it appear as such, a goad to see what he can suss out of the line of questioning. The sommalier floats by and the brunet lifts a white-gloved hand to gesture for a glass for himself. He sips at it once poured and then nods. "A good blend," he murmurs to no one in particular.

*

That makes her laugh, softly. Flirting, it looks like. "And how did you end up with Mister Black?" she asks, brightly. "Old school friends?" Kent nearly chokes on his own wine, and then grins like a fox. The Viennese pair share a conspiratorial glance - the Russians don't seem to know what to make of the situation. "You are business associates, yes?" Ivanov asks bluntly.

*

"Yes. We are business associates," Ambrose echoes almost dubiously after a moment of blank-faced surprise. At least his mouth was empty at the time of the question; the weight of his grip around the stem of the wineglass kept it from tipping. "I was unaware of him and his presence here in Shanghai until recently. Our interests overlap in places that benefit us both…in terms of our daily dealings. Plus, he's British. I can't leave the poor man to fend for himself here. He'd be up to his ears in misunderstandings in a heartbeat," he adds, giving Kent a sharp smirk in passing.

*

Lamont rolls his eyes heavenward after a beat, as if begging for patience to be granted by the Divine. That answer seems to satisfy the Russian, who nods, solemnly. Kulikova still wears her glittering vixen's grin. "I have heard you have a certain interest in antiquities," she probes, each syllable cut like glass.

*

"Ah…you see, Miss Kulikova, there's a standing chance that you've heard a good number of things about me. Whether or not they're truthful…therein lies the rub. I would wager a good number of them are exaggerations entirely," Ambrose replies wearing that same insinuation of a smile hidden away. "What little bird went and sung that song to you?"

*

She waves a pale hand negligently - the nails are enameled a shocking red - and tosses her head. "I don't recall," she says, tone airy. "The Settlement's always such a pool of gossip, heaven only knows where I picked it up." Meyer asks, apparently absorbed in the band on stage, "But it's true, isn't it?"

*

Meyers is the one who's on the receiving end of one of the signature icy looks from the Jackal. He's not got the snake-eyes down pat as Kent does, but his lingering attention contains not a lack of animation, but some brilliant facet of an eerie singular focus. Ambrose continues to wear the faint sly smile even as he replies,

"If you wish to talk business with me, Meyers, we will make time for it. For now, I believe the order of the hour was pleasant diversions…was it not?" His attention slides to Kent and lingers. After all, the man is the self-proclaimed head of the table.

*

"Of course," Kent replies, gallantly, as if jarred out of a reverie of his own. Meyer gives Ambrose a thoughtful look, bright-eyed. Looks like Ambrose isn't the only one on a quest. Not in the least dismayed by that glance. Kulikova's also turned to eye the band. "Your friend didn't stay? Unfortunate," she says, tone still mild. "You'll be short a partner when it's time for dancing, though there are taxi dancers…."

*

Ambrose sighs and nods. "Unfortunately, Janaya was testing her leash this evening. If she had stayed any later, she would have turned into a pumpkin." He smiles and gives the band a look as well. They seem to have paused between sets to wipe at brows and drink what water they can. Instruments are checked, polished, cleaned, and then the leader motions for the group to set up once again. "It's not an issue, however, Miss Kulikova. You, however, could have the pick of the table, I'm certain, much less the palace itself. I wouldn't hesitate to assume that any living, breathing man here would be charmed to have you on his arm on the floor."

*

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