Heirs of Infamy

“Can’t you see there’s a line?” someone hollers.

I don’t bother responding. Just flip my hair over one shoulder as I stride past them—straight to the entrance of Club Shanghai, emerald velvet skirt swishing over my ankle-strap heels.

The dance club has always drawn a crowd, especially students from the nearby University of San Francisco. But this is an exceptionally warm winter night, so Grant Avenue is teeming with an eclectic mix: college boys in sports coats, young women braving the cold in swing dresses, even a few sailors in their liberty blues on shore leave.

The thick‑necked bouncer looks at me lazily as I approach. “ID,” he grunts.

“I’m Alexis Sung,” I say.

A glimmer of recognition enters his eyes instantly, like I knew it would. In Chinatown and its vicinity, my name’s all the identification I need. And more than enough reason for the bouncer to lift the velvet rope, even though my baby face wouldn’t fool anyone.

As I step past the beaded curtain, the night air is swallowed by a wave of heat and sound. Lanterns cast an amber glow over the wooden floor, sticky with spilled beer, and the air is smoky with a heady mix of Lucky Strikes, Brylcreem, and syrupy perfume. Onstage, a singer in sequins croons over a jazz trio.

I wasn’t planning on going out tonight—I almost never do. But Dad’s out late again on East Phoenix business, and I couldn’t take another night listening to the echo of my own thoughts in our sprawling house. So here I am, chasing noise, bodies, sweat—anything that helps me feel like part of something bigger than myself.

“I swear we’re twenty‑one!” A familiar voice slices through the din.

Half a dozen of my classmates from Galileo High crowd near the entrance, angling for one last night out before winter break starts tomorrow. The same bouncer from earlier flips a driver’s license back to Susan Sutherland, whose scowl clashes with her peppy yellow polka‑dot dress.

“You think just ’cause I work at a club, I can’t read a birth date?” he grunts.

Susan’s offended look gives me a greater high than any drink from Club Shanghai’s bar. Maybe it’s petty, since we’re friends at school, all smiles and sweetness to each other’s faces. But any illusion that she likes me shattered when I overheard her gossiping about the dirty source of my father’s import business. Yet the very reason she sneers behind my back is also why she clings to the charade. Dirty or not, Harris Sung’s good side is where you want to be. And I play along because she’s one of the most popular girls at Galileo High. It’s one of Dad’s teachings: Standing close counts almost as much as standing tall.

The blond boy beside Susan—some junior on the football team and her cousin—charges to the front of the group. “I’m Patrick Wood,” he announces. “My father’s Peter Wood, chairman of the San Francisco Chamber of Commerce. He’s running for mayor, and he’s real close with Governor Andrews.”

The bouncer barks out a laugh. “Kid, I don’t give a damn who your old man is.”

But I do.

I cinch the sash of my skirt to accentuate my waist and stride up. “They’re with me,” I say, looking the burly bouncer in the eye. Surprise flickers across Susan’s face, but she recovers quickly.

Lifting her chin to match my stance, she loops her arm through mine, just like the best pals we are at school. “You heard my girl,” she sniffs, already sweeping past the velvet rope. “We’re going in with her.”

I lead them to a reserved table on the outskirts of the dance floor just big enough to fit Susan, Patrick, and their hangers‑on. Most of them are juniors I barely recognize, boys with gelled hair and eager smiles. I’ve flirted with a few in the past to get help on homework. But tonight I have bigger fish to fry.

“How about some drinks?” I offer. “Something strong to kick off winter break right.”

Getting Patrick past the rope is only half the job. I need him relaxed, loose‑lipped enough to let slip something that might be worth taking to Dad.

“Man, I’d kill for a Schlitz,” Patrick says. “But what if the guy at the bar checks our IDs? I’m not up for strike two tonight.”

“I can convince them to look the other way.” I flash a smile. “And the drinks are on the house. Let’s go with the Midnight Lotus, the signature kicker here.”

Also one of the strongest pours on the menu. Perfect for loosening Patrick’s tongue.
“Oh, Susan,” I add sweetly, catching her just as she’s about to take the vinyl chair beside Patrick, “why don’t you give me a hand? No way I can carry a tray that full in heels.”

The moment she stands, reluctance written all over her face, I toss my coat onto the chair, staking my claim. To pump Patrick for information, proximity is key.

As we weave through the crowd toward the bar, I let Susan ramble on about her winter break plans—something about her aunt’s place in Belvedere and a lad from Lowell High who’s absolutely besotted with her. I nod along, just enough to keep her talking—until she stops short.

“Is that Zachary Ren?” she blurts.

Heat spikes in my chest before the words even fully register. My gaze snaps to the tall, lean figure behind the bar.

For a moment, the room blurs. The rise of the club singer’s voice, the laughter threading through sultry jazz, the lanterns casting drowsy shadows over ink‑brushed murals—it all fades beneath the thunder of my heartbeat.

It’s him, all right. Zachary hefts a crate of bottled beer over one shoulder like it weighs nothing. His black shirt clings to his back, damp with sweat, sleeves rolled to the elbows. The golden glow of the lantern overhead glances off his tanned skin, catching in the hollow of his throat. His hair’s soaked through, plastered to his forehead, but the curve of his jaw is still unmistakable even after four years.

“Do you know him well?” Susan bumps my shoulder. “Can you introduce us?”

“Why would I know him well?” I snap, the words hitting the air before I can soften them. There’s no reason for Susan to think so. While I’ve glimpsed Zachary on occasion in school, we’ve stuck to our unspoken agreement: I pretend he doesn’t exist, and he returns the favor. Hard to believe we once sat beneath a Ping-Pong table in the Y and I made him pinkie swear we’d go to the same high school.

“Because, you know”—she shrugs—“you’re both Chinese.”

I bite back a scoff. Be nice, I tell myself. She and her cousin might know something I can bring back to Dad.

“Can you talk to him for me?” Susan asks hopefully. “He’s real cute, and I heard he topped our class again this term.”

A sour twist coils in my gut. I know exactly how smart Zachary Ren is—probably better than anyone. After that botched job four years ago, East Phoenix scouts pieced it together: The Dragons hit Old World Antiques as a trial for a new soldier, who proved himself by cracking the security clean. As soon as I heard, the sting of recognition pierced me. All those afternoons Zachary helped me with my science homework, all the radios and toasters he fixed up for resale. I’d seen his talent firsthand. I just never imagined I’d be on the wrong end of it.

“Of course,” I say, smile taut. “Wait here.”

He’s still lugging a case of beer when I approach, too focused to notice me at first. I cross my arms, tapping one heel against the floor to get his attention.

His gaze lifts slowly. It skims from my ankle up my leg, finally landing on my face. My skin prickles with a strange heat. The years have carved away Zachary’s baby fat, leaving behind leaner, sharper features: his cheekbones more chiseled, his eyes darker under hooded lids.

A pang hits me—sharp, sweet, and entirely unwelcome. This is the closest I’ve been to him in four years. We once vowed to sneak into a nightclub together before we turned eighteen—back when the idea of dancing in the smoky darkness felt like the height of rebellion. I remember fretting over what I’d say if the bouncer let me in too easily, how I’d explain away the special treatment. Back then, Zachary didn’t know the weight my last name carried, and I didn’t want him to.

Zachary straightens, a bead of sweat cutting down his cheek. “What’s the Phoenix Princess doing here? Does the club know there’s an underage girl sneaking in?”

A jolt runs through me. I’d almost forgotten the sound of his voice—low and steady, but deeper now, edged with a bite meant just for me.

“And does the club know there’s an underage boy working behind the bar?” I fire back. I know the underworld calls me the Phoenix Princess; it comes with being the only child of the East Phoenix boss. Most use it in reverence. My former friend spits it like a curse.