The Mao Case

shadow, so loyal to you, so sweet, so patient, and never stepping on your toes. Life is short, like a drop of dew in the early
     morning. The black ravens are already circling, nearer and nearer, above your head. So cheers, I raise my cup.
    “Since it’s your first time here, it’s for me to treat,” Gang said, taking
a large gulp of the beer as Chen pushed his cup to him. “I have a mind to lead you down to the road of the world.”
    Chen wondered at the prospect of Gang leading a cop down that road. Gang reached into his pants pocket. He came up with only
     a couple of pennies. He fumbled again. Still, the same pennies sat on the table. “I’m damned. This morning I changed my pants
     and left my wallet at home. Loan me ten yuan, young man. I’ll return it to you tomorrow.”
    It was a trick, obviously, but Chen took a perverse delight in his company that evening and handed over two ten yuan bills.
    “Auntie Yao, a bottle of Yang River Liquor, a dish of pork cheek meat, and a dozen chicken feet in hot sauce,” Gang shouted
     toward the kitchen, waving his hand like the Red Guard Commander he had once been.
    Auntie Yao — the middle-aged waitress — emerged from the kitchen, taking Gang’s order and money as she examined him closely.
    “You dirty rascal! Up to your old tricks again?”
    There was a roar of laughter in the eatery, like in a sitcom, when she started dragging Gang forcibly back to his own table,
     grasping his collar, the way a hawk does with a chicken.
    “Don’t listen to him.” She came back to Chen. “He plays the same dirty trick on every new customer here, telling the same
     story over and again, so that they take pity and give him money for booze. What’s worse, one of the young customers fell under
     his curse, turning into a damned drunkard just like him.”
    “Thank you, Auntie Yao,” Chen said. “Don’t worry about me. I want to have a quiet meal here.”
    “Good. I don’t think he’ll bother you again — not until he’s done with his horse shit,” she said, glaring over her shoulder.
    “Don’t worry about me, Auntie Yao,” Gang echoed from his table as she retreated into the kitchen.
    Auntie Yao must have been the restaurant’s only waitress, having worked there for years and knowing the regular customers
     well. She soon returned to Chen’s table with the noodles and the chef’s special.

    The special came in a small rustic urn, still steaming, as if from a rural kitchen. The beef noodles looked both hot and fresh.
    She sat on a stool not far from his table, as if guarding him, making sure that Chen had a quiet meal.
    But he wasn’t going to have one that evening.
    He was just putting the chopsticks into the fragrant-smelling urn when his cell phone rang. Possibly another call from Yong,
     he thought, who didn’t give up easily.
    “Comrade Chief Inspector Chen, this is Huang Keming from Beijing.”
    “Oh, Minister Huang.”
    “We need to talk. Is it a good time for you?”
    It was not, but Chen chose not to say so to the new Minister of Public Security. Nor was it really a question from Huang.
     Chen rose, hurrying out of the eatery, both hands covering the phone. “Yes, please go ahead, Minister Huang.”
    “Do you know about Shang Yunguan, a movie queen during the fifties?”
    “Shang Yunguan … I watched one or two of her movies long ago. But they didn’t leave much of an impression. She committed suicide
     at the beginning of the Cultural Revolution, I think.”
    “She did, but in the fifties and early sixties, she was very popular. When Chairman Mao came to Shanghai, he danced with her
     at parties arranged by the local government.”
    “Yes, Minister Huang?” Chen asked, wondering where this was going.
    “She could have taken — or been given — something from him. There were many opportunities.”
    “Something from Mao?” Chen was instantly alert, though hardly able to smother the sarcasm in his voice. “What could that possibly
     be?”
    “We don’t know.”
    “Perhaps pictures with captions saying ‘Our great leader encouraged a revolutionary artist to make a new
     contribution,’ or ‘Let hundreds of flowers bloom.’ Our newspapers and magazines were full of his pictures.”

    “Shang could have left it to her daughter Qian,” Huang went on without responding, “who died in an accident toward the end
     of the Cultural Revolution, leaving behind a daughter of her own, named Jiao. So you are going to approach