The mahjong parlor owner, Hu Zhongyuan, seemed a bit dazed, and his actions were somewhat brash and impulsive.
When it comes to operating a mahjong parlor in Beijing, you're either a fool or close to it. Anyone with a sense of cost-benefit analysis would switch to a foot massage parlor—eighty percent less trouble and eight times more profit.
But Hu Zhongyuan didn't seem to have considered this. If he could run the mahjong parlor, he would; if not, he would just go home and sleep soundly, banking on the undivided mahjong-loving heart of the Beijingers.
Sitting in the interrogation room, he kept muttering, "You can't just close my mahjong parlor every time you have some meeting. What's the meeting about this time? Reporters might as well get their news from camping out at my place; I've got better scoops than them!"
"This has nothing to do with your mahjong parlor," Liu Cheng sat in front of Hu Zhongyuan, speaking seriously, "Hu Zhongyuan, do you remember me?"
