Charlie Chan bowed whenever he met anyone. He spoke with careful, precise enunciation but talked oddly, conveying a sort of accent. It was nothing like any Chinese accent I had ever heard. He left out words, saying, “Heel mark on face of beautiful lady very significant.”
“I can’t believe I’m watching a Charlie Chan movie,” said Liz. “This is disgusting.”
More people shushed, louder than before.
Soon, Charlie Chan entered a florist to meet his number one son. Unlike Charlie Chan, the son was played by a Chinese American, who spoke normal American English of his time. He kept saying, “Gee, Pop.”
“Graceful as bamboo shoot. Beautiful as blossom of water lily,” Charlie Chan said of his son’s female friend.
Liz slumped down in her seat, her arms folded across her chest.
The mystery was abo
