“Nowadays, people look at nothing but their own feet,” Party Secretary Li Guohua, the top Party boss in the bureau, spoke, gravely, his heavy eye bags trembling in the afternoon light. “We have to reemphasize the glorious tradition of our Party. We have to rebuild the Communist value system. We have to reeducate people…”

Were people to blame for this? Chen lit a cigarette, rubbing the ridge of his nose with his forefinger and middle finger. After all the political movements under Mao, after the Cultural Revolution, after the eventful summer of 1989, after the numerous corruption cases within the Party system -

“People care for nothing but money,” Inspector Liao, the head of the homicide squad, chipped in loudly. “Let me give you an example. I went to a restaurant last week. An old Hunan restaurant that has been in business for many years, but all of a sudden, it’s a Mao restaurant. There are pictures of Mao, and of his bewitching personal secretaries, posted all over the walls. The menu is full of special dishes that were supposedly favorites of Mao. And so-called Xiang Sister Waitresses, clad in dudou-style bodices with Mao quotations printed on them, strutted around like hookers. The restaurant is shamelessly capitalizing on Mao, who would die from shock if he were resurrected today.”

“And there’s the joke,” Detective Jiang said, “about Mao walking into Tiananmen Square, where a shrewd businessman used him as an instant picture model for tourists, making tons of money. A crying shame -”

“Leave Mao alone,” Party Secretary Li cut in angrily.

A crying shame or not, a joke at the expense of Mao remained a political taboo, Chen observed, pulling over the ashtray. Still, the joke was a vivid illustration of present-day society. Mao had turned into a profitable brand name. Retribution or karma? Chen mused, watching the smoke rings spiral up in the conference room, when he became aware of Li’s fidgeting beside him. He had to say something.