“So I am to approach Jiao as anything but a cop -”

“It’s in the interest of the Party.”

“Comrade Zhao said that to me in another case,” Chen said, realizing that it was pointless for him to argue. “But there’s still no guarantee that Shang left anything behind.”

“You don’t have to worry about that. You go ahead in whatever manner you choose, and we trust you. I’ve already talked to your Party Secretary Li. He’s going to retire soon, you know. When this job is accomplished, you’ll advance to a position of greater responsibility.”

It was an unmistakable hint, but was Chen looking forward to such a position of greater responsibility? Still, he knew he had no choice.

Minister Huang said farewell and hung up. Chen closed the phone. When he moved back into the eatery, the noodles on the table were quite cold, the house special, greasy and gray on the surface of the urn, and the beer, stale and bubbleless. He had no appetite left.

Auntie Yao hurried over, offering to warm up the noodles, which, having soaked so long in the soup, would taste like paste anyway.

“No, thank you,” he said, shaking his head as he took out his wallet. Gang came limping over to Chen again.

“Now I recognize you,” Gang said. “You used to live in the neighborhood, calling me Uncle Gang. Don’t you remember that?”

“You are…?” Chen said, unwilling to admit he had long recognized him.

“A successful man may not have a good memory,” Gang said with a fleeting gleam in his eyes. “I’ll take care of the leftovers for you.”

“I’ve not touched anything – except the fish head,” Chen said.

“I trust you,” Gang patted on his shoulder. “Now you’re somebody.” The smoked carp head stared at the two of them with its ghastly eyes.

TWO

WHEN CHEN GOT BACK to his apartment, it was past eight.