The Mao Case

mind yet, but there must be something going on between Jiao and the man. He must have given the money
     to her.”
    “Hold on, Peng. How did she get her money — from the man as a lover or as a buyer?”
    “Perhaps both, but who cares? It’s just like the old saying: If she weren’t a thief, she wouldn’t feel guilty or ner vous.
     She wouldn’t have given me the money for nothing.”
    “But that’s blackmail. If she reported it to the police, you could get into big trouble.”

    “I’m a dead pig. What difference would it make throwing me into a cauldron of boiling water?” Peng said, crunching the last
     sweet and sour rib and wiping his fingers on the paper napkin. “What I did in those years is nothing today. Go to any high
     school, and you can see so many students billing and cooing on campus, behind the trees and in the bushes. But I went to jail
     for many years for that.”
    “Many people suffered in those years.”
    “I tried to start over but people avoided me like a piece of stinking meat. And after all these years, they are still telling
     their horrible stories about me and Qian. Do you think I really care about anything now?”
    Peng was lost in self-pity, half drunk, his face red like a cockscomb. Yu didn’t think he could get any more out of him, not
     with six bottles of beer empty on the table.
    “You have suffered a lot, but don’t try things like blackmail. It won’t do you any good.”
    “Thank you, Mr. Journalist. I won’t if I have any other choice.”
    “If you happen to think of anything else, you may contact me,” Yu said, putting down his cell phone number on a scrap of paper.
    “I will,” Peng said, draining the last cup.
    “Don’t tell anybody about our talk. Some people may try to get you into trouble,” Yu said, rising. “Take your time here.”
    “Don’t worry about that. I’m going to finish the noodles too.”
    Walking out of the restaurant, Yu turned back to see Peng burying his face in that bowl of noodles again, the same scene he
     had witnessed earlier. Perhaps there was a reason Peng’s coworker had commented on his rice-eating capability.

TWELVE
    CHEN ARRIVED AT THE tea house on Henshan Road, in the company of Old Hunter. The waitress recognized them, led them into the private room, and
     left them alone.
    As soon as he seated himself at the table, Old Hunter started briefing Chen about what he had done and what Yu had found out
     from Peng. For once, he wasn’t like a teasing Suzhou opera singer but instead talked fast, not digressing at all. Chen listened
     without interruption. Old Hunter then drained his cup and stood up. “I have to leave, Chief.”
    “Why such a hurry?” Chen said. “The second cup of tea is the best.”
    “I have to get back to the hot-water house opposite her apartment complex. An old security guard named Bei has a habit of
     fetching hot water in a stainless-steel cup and scurrying back to his cubicle around noon. I bet he buys a penny’s worth of
     hot water to warm up his cold rice. The owner of the hot-water house will try to introduce me to him today.”

    “Be careful. Internal Security is watching.”
    “Don’t worry. I’ll be sitting there, it will be simply a chance meeting between two old customers at the hot-water house.
     Who’ll bother? So you see, I’m going to have a second pot of tea in an hour. Bei’s retired too. Two retirees may have plenty
     to talk about.”
    “Really, like in one of your favorite proverbs, a piece of older ginger is spicier indeed.”
    “Spicier indeed,” the retired cop echoed with a wry smile. “But I’ll tell you what! It’s another Mao case, and my left eyelid
     has been twitching all morning. That may not be a good omen.”
    “Rub your left eye three times and say, ‘It’s a good omen,’ ” Chen said, smiling. “It works, according to my mother.”
    Chen rose to accompany the old man to the door of the tea house, watching him until he was out of sight. Then Chen came back
     to the table, to the suddenly solitary teacup. The waitress must have removed the other one.
    He was disturbed at the thought of Yu’s involvement, though it might not be something that could be helped. For such a Mao
     case, Old Hunter alone could do only so much, and Detective Yu had to chip in, a reinforcement which was already making a
     difference. There was no stopping a loyal partner like Detective Yu from throwing in his lot with Chief Inspector Chen.
    What Yu had