On the street below, a long line of convertibles filled with musicians and revelers moved with deliberate slowness, creating a traffic jam in the westbound lane. Trombones and trumpets, saxophones and clarinets, snare drums, even a double bass. There must’ve been two dozen musicians and as many passengers riding in the cars. Women in evening gowns sparkled with jewels that reflected back the streetlights. The men riding with them were impeccably turned out in tuxedos. Shao guessed they were entertainers, promoting a new club.

The cavalcade approached slowly, ignoring irate shouts and tooting horns. The musicians played a jaunty tune. A tune Shao recognized as one Shorty Ho used to whistle all the time while walking, but he couldn’t remember its name.

“Young Mr. Liu,” the doctor called from the dining room. “Do you know how to wash dishes? I think it’s the least we can do for our hostesses.”

Shao turned to go back inside, then stopped. He reached inside his jacket and gave Lian an envelope. “Before I forget,” he said. “From my brother.”

LIAN TOOK THE note and put it in her apron pocket. Whatever was in the note, it could wait. The parade below was too interesting to miss. She leaned over the balcony to watch the procession, the cars and musicians, passengers in evening attire.

Then Sparrow came to stand beside her and it all changed.

The shiny black convertible leading the parade was no longer a convertible. A handsome bearded man led the procession, robes of heavy silk fluttering against the flanks of the tall black horse he was riding.

Sparrow waved at the bearded man, who bowed gravely in return.

Open horse-drawn litters carried his entourage, men and women dressed in ancient garb. The women’s diaphanous gowns were rich with embroidery, the men’s robes bright as jewels. They were all, every single one, male and female, scandalously, seductively beautiful. One of the women looked up at the balcony and winked at Lian. A slow, lascivious wink. Then she raised her bamboo flute and continued playing. The music hadn’t changed, a lively familiar tune from some Hollywood movie.

“Who are they?” Lian asked, fascinated.

“Ba Meishen, the guardian of prostitutes, and his assistants,” Sparrow said. “Shanghai has been a good home base for them. Leaving was a hard decision.”

The end of the procession passed below them, and gradually Lian heard only music, the lively tune above the noises of traffic, the shouts of sidewalk vendors. From inside the flat, the sound of spirited conversation, Shao and the doctor discussing literature, their voices raised, the dishes forgotten. Outside on the balcony, Lian could’ve done fine embroidery by the light of the Star.

“It’s nearly over,” Sparrow said. “Almost everyone is on their way. The Shanghai City God has promised me he’ll be the next to go.”

“How will we manage,” Lian said, “without help from the gods?”