Actor Andy Lau attends the graduation ceremony of the Hong Kong Academy for Performing Arts as Lau receives the award of Honorary Fellowship, July 7, 2006. [Reuters/file]

Fans in China would jump through hoops for their idols, but few have a chance to show such loyalty. I was lucky, because I put my life on the line for one of the most adored superstars. And I'm not even his fan.

On the afternoon of December 28, I was riding the subway to the China Radio International building for the taping of a talk show. Shortly after I switched from the Loop Line to Line One, a vendor appeared, carrying a stack of bluish newspapers. He shouted: "Andy Lau was shot dead by triad members last night in Hong Kong!"

Constant target

It gave me a twinge of despair. I love his work. Yes, he is a mediocre singer and a so-so actor, but he really tries. On top of everything, he seems to be a very nice person. I've never met him, not even seen him in concert, but every entertainment reporter I know tells me that Andy is the nicest possible person in showbiz. And that's saying a lot. Moreover, his songs are the only ones I can sing in karaoke without resorting to falsetto.

"What? Andy is dead? Again?" I shuddered. "How many times does he have to die so unscrupulous entrepreneurs can profit from it?"

I was angry. About 30 percent of the time when I ride the subway, I hear this headline broadcast from car to car by a one-person sales army. Can't they just take off their clothes and streak to sell papers? Why should a favorite entertainer become the fodder for the survival of a tabloid?

Andy Lau must have died two dozen times in the past two years when I happened to be on the Beijing Metro. The first time I heard it, I was shocked. But then I noticed the other passengers were so calm, they must have encountered it before. As I can remember, only one passenger an old gentleman bought a copy. I don't think he is Andy's fan, but who knows? Wherever Chinese is spoken, everyone loves Andy.

Why should I care if someone fabricates a story and makes a living out it? According to a Youth Weekend report, a vendor makes an average of 3,000-4,000 yuan ($380-510) a month hawking this paper, which is grandiosely titled The Legal Star.

Why do tabloids take on such unimaginative names? (By the way, I used to think The National Enquirer was published by the US Information Office).

I had a traumatic experience about 20 years ago. I was in the Beijing Railway Station plaza, where millions pass through every year to get on the train home. A young man was hawking a similar newspaper. He blurted out a few names that were hot in entertainment at that time, such as "read about Liu Xiaoqing's dumping another of her husbands". Seeing no response, he got into a creative mood and yelled: "Jiang Qing killed herself! Read all about it here!"

You know what? Madame Mao did end her own life several years later. Gee, these people are not only illegal vendors, but they are crystal-ball readers as well.

Brave action

With that flashing before my mind's eye, I took out my digital camera and snapped the subway vendor.

A few seconds later, another went by. I did the same, trying not to attract their attention. But traffic was sparse. They spotted me five of them.

After they moved to the next car, I checked my photos. Most were blurry or just showed the back of the head. Just as I was kicking myself over my unprofessional photo-taking skills, they returned.

"Why did you take pictures of us?" one of them approached me.

"I'm not taking pictures of you." I wanted to add that I was shooting a pretty girl nearby, but I figured I didn't have the comic chops to make them laugh.

"Delete them or we won't let you go!" they demanded.

People looked at us with indifference. Only one young couple tried to mediate: "Please don't fight. Everything can be settled peacefully."

Hey, they should work for the UN, or better, the Bush administration. That could have saved the US tens of billions of dollars.

There was no cop in sight. Couldn't they station some of the ubiquitous security guards inside the cars instead of having them jam the platform? I was getting desperate as I looked around.

Would I get the respect and eulogy bestowed on Daniel Pearl, the reporter from The Wall Street Journal slain by terrorists, if I got killed in a subway train by a band of poor farmers-turned-illegal vendors?

I should have asked my boss to send me to Iraq to cover the war. I should have insisted on sneaking into a coal mine for my scoop. I should My mind was darting about in every direction.

I was even envisioning Andy Lau singing at my funeral. He could choose the song The Man Who Did Not Make It not one of his better known, but it would fit the occasion, after all.

The newspaper vendors, including one woman, encircled me and squeezed me into a corner.

"Could I invite you guys to Starbucks, and you may want to share your stories with me. I could pay you for your time," I tried to lighten the atmosphere.

From the lack of expression on their faces, I instantly knew I had failed as a Woody Allen imitator. Ironically, I was on my way to a talk show on Woody Allen. I wish I had secretly admired Jackie Chan instead.

"We don't want to cause trouble," they said. "Just delete your photos." They were very firm.

I guess they were not too bad. They did not want to take my camera. So, I slowly took it out and showed them the photos. The images were so hazy that they wouldn't be much use to the police, let alone to my editor.

As I was pretending not to know how to use the Delete function, one of them pointed to the button, which was marked only in English. You'd be amazed how tech-savvy these people are. They could all work for Home Electronics Guide.

After ensuring every photo was erased, they vanished into the next car. Everyone else looked at me as if I was the biggest fool they had ever seen.

Maybe I should ask Andy Lau for a hidden-camera cell phone with a fast-shutter lens. After all, I was the one who stood up for his name when it was in danger of being sullied by a sleazy and illegal tabloid.

I might actually get in. Again, when he "dies" next week, someone else may ask for more.