“But listen, Charlie,” Eden protested. “I promised to call my father this morning. And Madden isn’t an easy man to handle.”
“Hoo malimali,” responded Chan.
“No doubt you’re right,” Eden said. “But I don’t understand Chinese.”
“You have made natural error,” Chan answered. “Pardon me while I correct you. That are not Chinese. It are Hawaiian talk. Well known in islands—hoo malimali—make Madden feel good by a little harmless deception. As my cousin Willie Chan, captain of All-Chinese baseball team, translate with his vulgarity, kid him along.”
“Easier said than done,” replied Eden.
“But you are clever boy. You could perfect it. Just a few hours, while I have talk with the smart Tony.”
Eden considered. Paula Wendell was coming out this morning. Too bad to rush off without seeing her again. “Tell you what I’ll do,” he said. “I’ll wait until two o’clock. But when the clock strikes two, if nothing has happened in the interval, we hand over those pearls. Is that understood?”
“Maybe,” nodded Chan.
“You mean maybe it’s understood?”
“Not precisely. I mean maybe we hand over pearls.” Eden looked into the stubborn eyes of the Chinese, and felt rather helpless. “However,” Chan added, “accept my glowing thanks. You are pretty good. Now proceed toward the miserable breakfast I have prepared.”
“Tell Madden I’ll be there very soon.”
Chan grimaced. “With your kind permission, I will alter that message slightly, losing the word very. In memory of old times, there remains little I would not do for Miss
