By
This story was inspired from the Pilot Episode's racquetball scene, but the characters have the same roles as they did in “CHiPs 99”.
The ball bounced low from the back wall, and Gertraer struggled to get there in ti me . It would be a sure winner if he could manage to get to the ball, but he almost knew it was hopeless even before he began the sprint. The ball bounced twice on the floor and the point went to the team of Jon Baker and Artie Grossman.
“Hey, Slick,” Ponch's voice reverberated from the wooden walls, “How'd you manage that shot?”
Jon shrugged his shoulders and replied, “It's all about the experience, partner. And you have to admit, The Kid 's got experience.”
Ponch laughed out loud as he went to retrieve the ball that was resting about two feet from the back wall. As he returned the ball to Jon, he got down on bended knee, holding the ball up to Jon's outstretched hand.
Bowing his head before him so it almost touched his elbow, Ponch said, “Here you are, oh, King of Racquetball.”
Jon just laughed as he handed the ball to Gertraer. It was Gertraer's serve. He walked in a circle between the bright red service lines painted on the floor. This was it: match point for the team of Grossman and Baker.
“I just can't believe it,” Getraer thought to himself, “Commissioner of the CHP, and I still can't beat these guys in a simple ga me of racquetball.”
On the outside, Gertraer shook his head, and let the ball fall from his hands. He took an enormous backswing, determined to beat his subordinates. His eyes were focused on the exact spot where he wanted the ball to touch the back wall, but to his dismay, the ball bounced again. He had swung his racquet and missed the ball!
“Oh, no,” Ponch said aloud, covering his eyes with his hands, “Tell me that didn't happen!”
“Guess it's lots of Ding-Dongs for you tonight to recoop from this loss, Ponch,” Jon laughingly teased his old partner.
Grossie made a fist with his hand and blew air across his fingers before he said, “It's all in the backswing, right, Gertraer?”
Stunned, Gertraer couldn't speak. Never in the history of the ga me had he ever served—or didn't serve—so badly.
“It was the pressure,” Gertraer thought to himself, “It had to be the pressure.”
BEEP! Brrzzzz.
“What was that?” Ponch asked.
“I don't know,” Grossie replied quickly. It almost sounds like a little alarm clock.”
Seeing Ponch's digital watch on his wrist, Jon asked, “Is it yours, Ponch?”
Ponch put his watch to his ear. Not hearing a sound from the watch, he replied, “Nope—not mine.”
Jon, Ponch, and Grossie stood inside and surveyed the racquetball court, looking in all directions, trying to determine what was making this strange noise. Gertraer, still in shock, just me lted into the side wall.
“All I've got to say is,” Grossie began, “You better keep your day job, Gertraer.”
“Speaking of which,” Gertraer's voice had a hardened tone, “You better find those criminals, me n. They are stealing CDs and then reproducing them illegally. The problem is that they're developing a matching cover, and then selling them to various stores in the area, so the store owners don't have a clue. Make sure you have a few undercovers at Arachnoid's tomorrow.”
BEEP! Brrzzzz.
“There's that sound again!” Ponch interrupted. “What in the world is that noise?”
Meanwhile, from high above the racquetball court, a man and a woman chuckled to themselves as the man hit stop on their cell phone's recording button. They had the information they needed. Now, they just needed to pass on these details.
After looking around for a few mo me nts, Jon finally declared, “Ponch, I think you're hearing things.”
“Am not!” The pitch of Ponch's voice modeled that of an unhappy three-year old.
“Yeah, whatever,” Jon responded nonchalantly, waving his hand at Ponch.
With that, both teams headed to the locker rooms, but Ponch kept a lookout as he sauntered through the hallways.
The man and woman raced outside, trying to remain out of eyesight. Luckily, they had worn black clothing, which easily camouflaged them near the rafters. Once outside, the couple took shelter in an abandoned alley. Alquela slowly and deliberately dialed 555-8929 on her cell phone, the phone he had purchased. Ring. Ring. Ring.
“What do you want?” A deep, raspy voice answered the phone im me diately after the third ring, as always.
“Info,” Alquela whispered with her Mexican accent.
“Go ahead,” the voice responded.
“Tomorrow. Arachnoid's.”
“Got it,” the voice replied, “You have until 9 AM . Good day.”
After the voice said these words, the line went dead.
Suddenly, a sharp wind blew her long black hair into her face. Although she couldn't see clearly, she clearly understood what these words me ant. Alquela had until 9 AM tomorrow morning to prepare; otherwise, she would be deported back to Mexico . This new life frightened her, but she knew she had to persevere.
“¿Usted está listo, mi esposa?” Aquela's husband asked.
“Si,” she responded in whisper to her husband, “I am ready.”
Aquela knew that after tomorrow, she would be a rich lady. This little sacrifice would enable her children to co me to the United States and seek a better life. If she failed at her mission, however, she would most likely never be able to set foot inside the United States again and may be punished in her native country. Toiling with these possibilities in her mind, Aquela had difficulty sleeping that night.
Before long, the sun-kissed ocean air was filling Los Angeles on Thursday morning. Although the sunrise was usually difficult to see, today was different. Various shades of reds, pinks, blues, and purples filled the sky. It was a day to re me mber.
Ponch admired the sunrise on his way to work. Perhaps it was the beautiful scene or it may have been that extra Ding-Dong he had for breakfast, but he was determined to volunteer to serve as one of the undercovers at Arachnoid's.
“I have got to figure out what that noise was yesterday,” Ponch thought to himself, “Or I'll just go crazy!”
As he rode his motorcycle to work, a bright red convertible pulled up beside him. A few blonde-haired girls whistled from their car as they admired his physique. At this, Ponch smiled to himself.
“You still got it, old fella!” Ponch thought as he gunned his engine but just said aloud, “Good morning, ladies. Drive carefully, now.”
“You bet we will,” one star-struck lady replied, still admiring Ponch's looks.
Ponch glanced at his watch. It was 8:00 already! If he was going to volunteer for this position, he needed to hurry since Central was still twenty-five minutes away; he certainly did not want to be assigned another position for today.
Meanwhile, Aquela and her husband had just arrived outside the store. They were warned earlier to appear nonchalant because otherwise, they would appear obvious. They found a quiet bench at a bus stop, bought the morning paper, and began reading it. They shared sections, passing them back and forth, even though Aquela's husband didn't comprehend English.
“¿A qué hora es?” Aquela's husband asked.
“Shh,” Aquela whispered, “Es tiempo ahora. Aquí él viene.”
She repeated her state me nts to herself in English, hopefully the language she would be using all the ti me : “It is ti me now. Here he co me s.”
The man was walking down the street, equipped with a black leather briefcase. They had never seen him before, but his aura spoke a thousand words. Although both Aquela and her husband imagined him as a large, burly man, he was actually quite short and skinny. He wore a long black coat, which covered the majority of his black trousers. He had large glasses that covered approximately half of his small face. When the man was about two feet from the couple, he acknowledged them with a small nod. It was ti me .
The three of them entered the store and headed toward the cash register where a young girl was standing.
“Good morning. May I help you?” The girl welco me d them.
“Si, señorita,” Aquela's husband began, but she im me diately interrupted him.
“Yes. You'll have to excuse him, but he doesn't speak English. What we need from you today is to speak with your manager. You see, we are representatives from Olio records, and we have so me new CDs for your store in this briefcase.”
“Yes, ma'am,” the girl replied and began to look for her superior in the back room.
While the girl looked for her boss, the couple quickly began rummaging through CDs and placing them in inconspicuous places. Aquela placed a few in her jacket, while her husband placed so me in his pockets. When Aquela ran out of room in her jacket, she began filling the briefcase with CDs. The ringleader stood back and admired their work.
“Go.”
The deep raspy voice had given his order, and the couple knew they must obey. Running into the aisles of the store, the couple set off the alarm buzzer, but they continued to run quickly.
Hearing the alarm buzzer, the young girl quickly called 9-1-1 .
“There was a man and woman in our store,” the worker relayed in a nervous tone, “They asked me to get the manager, and, when I ca me back, several CDs were stolen. Oh, man, what are we going to do now?”
The race was on. A few minutes into the race, Aquela stopped part way down the street, out of breath, and threw the briefcase down on the sidewalk.
“¡Venga en, Aquela!” Her husband urged her on in a strained voice, for he, too, had been running for several minutes.
“No, puedo no,” Aquela felt as if her insides were ripping apart as tears strea me d from her face.
Thoughts raced through her mind as quickly as they had raced through the streets. “This is the mo me nt of truth,” she thought to herself, “I either have to run or stand tall.”
“¡Venga en, Aquela!”
Her husband's voice shattered her thoughts, and she could hear people running in the distance, encouraging her to return and do the right thing. But did she have the strength? The strength to continue? The strength to return? Everyone was counting on her. But to do what?
Suddenly, she heard a siren, and she knew it was me ant for them. This was the sign she was asking for, the sign that would determine her husband's and her life. Could she really do it?
“¿Qué está equivocado, la miel?” Her husband asked, placing his arm around her.
Aquela smiled at her husband's concern. She was glad he cared about her enough to support her in her decisions. Quickly, Aquela described why she was concerned, and her husband listened intently. It was as if ti me stopped for a mo me nt; everyone around them, whether they knew what they had done or not, was invisible to this man and this woman.
Ponch ca me upon this scene, mounted upon his motorcycle, gazing intently. It wasn't often that he saw criminal suspects have a change of heart, and this scene moved him. Dismounting his bike, he briskly walked over to the couple.
Looking up and seeing a police officer, she began to cry harder.
“I'm sorry, Officer,” she stated through sobs, “I'm sorry.”
“Ah, Señorita,” Ponch began, “I'm sorry, too, because you know what I have to do now, don't you?”
“Si,” the woman replied softly.
As he led the two suspects away to another officer's patrol car, he wondered what the world would be like if everyone admitted their mistakes and apologized for them. Deep down, he knew that this would never occur, but perhaps since he returned to the CHP, this could be his mission in life—his rematch.