My Man Charlie Chan

The side streets were dark in Key West. Every Wednesday night dim streetlights lead us to the outdoor movie in the dirt parking lot. Sis and I each carried a bucket, to be flipped upside down for our seats. We brought big caramel suckers that would last through the movie and into the next day, then put them in the ice box kept cold by a huge chunk of ice delivered to our door every few days.

The same kind of movie was shown every week, a Charlie Chan flick. Number One Son would listen at a door or pick up a phone on the hallway table of the mysterious house and hear a lady with the name of Madam X making plans to steal a secret formula from the government. Her eyes were made up with thick black eyeliner and she wore bright red lipstick and colorful silky dresses. She wore her hair up on her head with a big wooden needle to hold it in place. It was also a weapon if needed, right through the heart and her enemy was dead.

The story usually went on something like this, number One Son gets caught because he sneezed or knocked something over. Someone ties him to a chair in a cobwebbed basement. Eventually he wriggles his way out by hopping to a tool bench nearby where he has spotted a knife to cut himself loose. He creeps upstairs and listens at the door. Madam X and her gang are plotting the crime. He goes back down cellar, sees a part way opened window and climbs out, he must warn his dad.

His famous detective father, Charlie Chan is worried about his hapless helper, what is he up to, he thought. He scolds him about his immature antics, but is secretly glad that he is out there helping in spite of his halfwit methods. In the end Charlie Chan catches Madam X and her gang. He smiles when he tells the police chief how valuable Number One Son was in his own clumsy way.

By this time, our all day suckers are only half gone and the light by the makeshift concession stand is on to warn us to pick up our buckets and go home. A zig zag route, and we are there. Up the dark staircases to the third floor, through hallways with big overhead fans blowing wet, damp air. The rubber mats on each stair had become sticky, we walked slowly and softly. We reached our apartment door and listened just like Number One Son. We heard loud talking and crept in quietly. The curtains blew slightly as we slipped into our beds. We hid under the white sheets hoping no one knew we were back.