by Matt Hader
Champ scrambled backed and away, eyes locked on the interior of the open garage. He tripped, fell on his ass, got to his feet, and scurried up the back steps of his house. He flung open the creaking screen-door, and ran directly into the kitchen of the brick bungalow.
“Did you edge the driveway?” asked Champ’s dad, Will Granville, who sat at a pitted round wood table just as he chomped into a fat peanut butter on white.
Champ didn’t even acknowledge his father. He sped past him as Will sloshed down a drink of milk to top off the sloppy sandwich bite.
Will Granville sported the exhausted and haggard look of a man who had worked for the past twelve years on the midnight shift. The color had permanently drained from the 55-year old man’s face, and his skin hung loosely from his jaw line and neck. His job as the assistant manager of a frozen food warehouse in Bensenville did have four-day rotating workdays to allow for an actual free Saturday and Sunday every now and then, but the lack of sleep for the past decade or so had played havoc on his mental capacity and clouded his better judgment. Up to this point, Champ was the target of most of Will’s sleep-deprived outbursts.
Will had returned home an hour earlier and looked forward to his two days off. He was in a brighter mood due to his pending days off, and he allowed Champ’s muted slight to slide with, “Now I get the silent treatment?”
Champ didn’t even see or hear his father. He turned right into the dining room, past the peeling flowery wallpaper and stepped over threadbare carpet. He went toward the stairway that led up to his bedroom.
The interior of the house hadn’t been updated in years. There was no female touch in the home for good reason. Champ’s mother, Gwen, a frustrated artist, was gone. The home was originally her family’s house, and she inherited the place when Champ’s grandmother died. There was no mortgage payment, but the exorbitant real estate taxes ate Will Granville alive. Between whatever home maintenance he could actually afford with his measly salary and those real estate taxes, he barely had enough left over from his bi-weekly paychecks to keep food on the table. Every time Will considered selling, though, he pulled up short. He wanted to keep the home no matter the cost, financially, or emotionally. He may have stopped his physical search for his wife a year after she left, but he still loved her. How would Gwen ever find them if they moved, he thought.
Champ leapt up the stairs, two at a time, to the second floor of the house. At the top of the stairs, he turned left and moved down a short hallway toward his back bedroom. He entered the room and slammed the door closed. He took another few deep breaths and peered toward the set of double windows. Champ took a slow step backwards and bumped into the closed bedroom door. He stood there among the chaos of his teenage boy’s bedroom, complete with piles of dirty laundry and peeled posters on the wall, and tried to control his breaths. He ultimately worked up the courage to actually peek out the windows.
He moved forward, pressed his forehead to one of the window’s glass, and stared back out at the open garage below. He couldn’t grasp the confused emotions that immediately roiled up inside him.
He experienced a mix of dread and the sweet nostalgia of a forgotten pleasant memory. For some inexplicable reason, Champ instantly recalled another specific summer day when he was much younger. He watched out the bedroom window and remembered a game of back yard wiffle ball that he played on a sunny day just like this. He was reminded of the joy when he swung a yellow plastic bat and connected with a white ball for the first time after several failed attempts. The elated yelps of other young boys filled his ears when he made the white plastic ball sail across the yard. Why was he recollecting this memory now, he wondered.
He darted his eyes around the garage and another feeling washed over him. It was the sense that someone was in imminent danger. It felt so real, and it confused him even further. He couldn’t quite form all the competing thoughts into solid ideas yet, but his body drove him back out of the bedroom, down the stairs, through the kitchen, and past his surprised father, to the back yard once again.
He sprinted to the open garage, but skidded to a stop before going inside.
His breaths accelerated and became erratic. He hyperventilated. His eyes darted about, frantic from the panic attack. He fought hard to relax himself. Finally, hands on knees, he got his breaths back under control but then straightened and stood stock-still as an image violently bolted through his mind.
It was a vivid memory of his older brother - he was twelve at the time. He was standing on the concrete apron in front of the tiny brick garage – and he was crying.
In Champ’s imagination, his brother was terrified. He was the brother that Champ only remembered from the photographs that were tucked into a box located in the first floor hall closet. The image of the terrified brother unmercifully hung in Champ’s mind. He tried to wish the image away but he lost that battle.
Champ’s mind’s eye plainly conjured the brother that his father, Will Granville, and oldest brother, Bradley, never spoke of. He was the middle brother who died suddenly when Champ was only a 3-year old boy.
He could distinctly imagine his brother as he stood on the driveway, dressed in a brown and white striped shirt, blue cargo shorts. He wore black and white Chuck Taylor’s on his feet. In Champ’s mind, his brother was petrified. His face contorted in agony.
Champ allowed his body to relax. He crouched to the ground and plopped onto his ass as he looked directly into the open garage with widened eyes.
He let out a long breath and said, “David.”
***
Now…
The car headlights flashed past and briefly illuminated the terrified boy’s pupils as he frantically darted his eyes left then right. There was no escape. A drop of salty sweat rolled from his forehead and into his right eye as he struggled. He blinked the sweat away and tried to lean forward to liberate his shirt-back from the powerful man’s vice-like grasp. He succeeded only to stumble forward. The man’s beefy hand wrenched his 13-year old body back into a painfully upright position, and he stopped his struggle for now.
“The other one got away,” said the 35-year old balding man wearing a cheap shirt and tie combination over off-brand jeans, as another set of passing headlights danced off his back. This man stood 10-feet away, a disgusted expression on his face. “Dipshit here tripped over the ones he snagged and dropped.”
Uniformed Chicago beat cop, 30-year old Champ Granville kept his grasp on the young perp’s shirt-back.
Champ nodded to Bobby Norwood, his uniformed partner, as he stepped around the front of retail building and into view.
“Nothing,” was all Bobby said.
“Okay. Check the alley, I’ll deal with this. Four were taken, but we can only see three on the ground.”
Bobby jogged toward the mouth of the darkened alley at the rear of the parking lot and disappeared from view.
“I was gonna pay, man!” said the terrified boy, as a warm August night breeze kicked up and tussled his longish brown hair.
“He’s done this before, just couldn’t catch him and that other little shit the last time,” said the man in the cheap tie.
Physically, Champ had matured nicely into adulthood. Gone was the unconfident appearance of an awkward 16-year old boy who had been pushed down by his peculiar upbringing. He now stood well over six-feet tall and had a rugged muscular frame – all due to an astonishing growth spurt shortly after he turned 16 years old.
With a flat, yet menacing expression in his eyes, Champ surveyed the pocked-marked side lot of the small Harlem Avenue cell phone store. He spotted three colorful smartphone boxes scattered about in the open and just the corner of a fourth under the inside edge of a parked Kia’s tire. “You go inside, I’ll be in after I cuff and stuff young Steve Jobs.”
“Wait! No! You’re arresting me?” asked the kid, as tears formed
in his eyes.
“What did you think was going to happen?” asked Champ. “I got it, sir.”
The man in the cheap tie, confident in the way Champ handled the situation, nodded, stooped to pick up the three visible stolen cell phones, and made his way back inside the store.
Champ let go of the kid’s shirt and said, “Get the one under the car over there.”
“What?”
“Right there. By the tire,” said Champ, impatient, as he shined his flashlight on the edge of the partially obscured package. With his free hand Champ twisted the car keys tucked into his belt-loop free.
The kid tentatively stepped the 30-feet to the back of the parked Kia and bent over. He had to shimmy on his belly to get his fingers on the box. After he retrieved the phone, he got to his knees, but his eyes began to dart once again.
“Don’t be an idiot,” said Champ, as he casually motioned with his left forefinger for the kid to come closer. “You’re smart enough to know that bullets are kind of fast.” The kid’s eye froze in place, and he gulped hard. He got to his feet and cautiously made his way back over to Champ.
Champ turned his back on the kid and led him to the trunk of his marked Chicago police car. He sensed that the kid wasn’t moving fast enough and said, “Don’t test me, mope.” The kid made his way over to the car. Champ popped open the trunk with the key and said, “The blue duffel bag.”
The kid didn’t need any further instruction. He unzipped the blue duffel bag with ‘Granville’ stenciled in white letters and tucked the stolen phone inside. Before he could zip the bag closed, Champ slammed the trunk down, and the kid barely got his hands out in time.
“Here’s what’s going to happen-”
“You’re calling my mom,” interrupted the kid, his shoulders slumped in defeat.
Champ took a good long look at the kid and said, “You’re going to run.”
The kid raised his gaze.
Champ cocked his head to the side. Nodded once for the kid to go.
The terrified kid didn’t even hesitate. He ran in the same direction that Champ’s partner, Bobby, had gone. “Hey, numb nuts,” said Champ, as he tossed his thumb in the opposite direction.
The kid looked over his shoulder, skidded to a stop, nearly fell, and redirected. He took off like a wobbly-kneed gazelle. A moment later, Bobby emerged from the shadows. His eyes showed confusion when he couldn’t see the kid with either Champ or in the back of the police car.
“What happened?”
“He was faster,” said Champ.
“Right,” said Bobby.
Champ lied and Bobby was sure of it. Bobby’s mind drifted to his freshman year at Eastern Illinois University, where he first witnessed his partner’s speed and aggression as one of the Panther’s starting outside linebackers. Champ Granville used his explosive quickness, and football smarts, to successfully chase down runners in O’Brien Stadium for four straight seasons. Bobby was a fan of the football player version of Champ Granville. Not so much Champ the cop.
“You’ll need to go inside and advise the shop manager. I doubt that he’s going to be happy. I’ll collect any evidence and get the paperwork going,” said Champ.
***
“1620’s with a suspicious subject at Milwaukee and Devon. Give that call to another car,” said Champ into his shoulder-mounted microphone. He leaned back against the squad car’s headrest and admired the two 10-foot tall, anthropomorphic hotdogs erected on the roof of the restaurant.
He knew that she would step out of the side door of the building at any moment. She would always appear around the halfway mark of his nightly shift in Chicago’s 16th district. For the past few weeks he’d made a habit of posting-up in the parking lot of the eatery at the busy corner of Milwaukee and Devon, as he awaited its close.
Every time he’d driven through this neighborhood, even when he was a child growing up in nearby Park Ridge, he’d get a kick out of spotting the “hotdog people,” as he called them. He loved how they mugged from the rooftop of the neon peppered, black and blue painted structure.
The hotdog stand was a famous ‘Chicago dog’ purist’s haven. People the world over would come to the establishment for the real thing. The place was featured in numerous national television segments on food and travel networks. And in typical Chicago style, anyone ignorant enough to order catsup on his or her dogs were verbally admonished by the staff of the eatery and sent out the door - on an empty stomach, of course.
“She’s in high school, man. This isn’t cool,” said Bobby. “Now we’re ignoring calls.”
“Take it easy, Babette,” said Champ, his eyes locked on the door again. He used ‘Babette’ when Bobby pissed him off. He knew Bobby didn’t like being called that so he used the name more often than not these days.
Bobby had grown weary of Champ’s antics. Champ was up to something at the cell phone lot when he ordered him to go on a wild goose chase down the darkened alley. He just couldn’t figure out exactly what angle Champ had played. Bobby was especially tired of the nightly ritual they currently participated in - eyeing the side door of the restaurant as they waited for the blond haired, green-eyed young woman to step out after her shift ended.
Bobby had considered going to his sergeant to report Champ’s unprofessionalism but smartly stopped himself from taking any real action. The consequences were just too extreme. Officers, who turned on other cops, even over minor infractions, were filed instantly into the pariah category. If Bobby were to stir the shit-pot as it pertained to Champ - no one else would want to partner with him for fear of being turned on too.
“She’s in her second year at Harold Washington. She’s almost 21. At least that’s what she told me,” said Champ as he winked. His eyes had a difficult task of splitting their time between the restaurant’s door, and the hot dog people on top of the building. The leopard skin-wearing male hotdog gave his best as he flexed his skinny charcuterie muscles for the demure, blue head-bow-adorned, poodle-skirt festooned female hotdog.
Champ met the green-eyed young woman when he’d taken a 9 PM lunch-break here two weeks prior. The mutual flirtation began, and the double-entendres flew the moment he told her to “run my dog through the garden.” He had three days off coming up and he thought tonight would be the perfect moment to ask her out on a proper date.
Champ’s shoulder-mounted police radio crackled. “1620, Sarge wants you to break off what you’re doing and respond to 6832 N Northwest Highway for a medic assist.” The female dispatcher giggled, and continued, “They have a subject with an injured leg in an abandoned four-flat. Paramedics report the male is a ghost hunter and that violence is brewing.”
Before he could even respond, the radio erupted in ‘ghostly’ howls and groans from other 16th district officers. The ghost sounds were followed by boisterous laughs. A moment later, the mobile data terminal mounted between Champ and Bobby beeped and typed information appeared on the screen.
“We have to see this,” blurted Bobby, happy to leave the hotdog place and get back to work. Bobby clicked the keyboard with his thumb to accept the call.
“No, man. What are- Why did you do that?” asked Champ.
Champ saw the green-eyed beauty exit the side door along with a gaggle of co-workers. Even decked out in a crappy dark colored golf shirt over utilitarian black work pants, she was a stunner. She took her hotdog-emblazoned visor off, waved, and grinned when she saw him in the police car.
“Granville?” asked Bobby, his patience gone.
“Shit,” said Champ. He slammed the car into drive, and shrugged an apology to the green-eyed young woman as the car rolled past her. Bobby lit up the lights and siren and they peeled out of the parking lot.
###
About the Author
Matt Hader is a novelist, screenwriter, and producer. After stud
ying at The Second City, he got his creative start working as a 9-1-1 communications officer by night and a screenwriter by day. In addition to the several screenplays he’s written, optioned, and sold, Matt has also worked as a producer, and creative consultant on various film and television projects.
He has spoken at several film festivals around the country, including the Austin Film Festival and is a current member of the International Association of Crime Writers (North America Branch), as well as a former board member of The American Screenwriters Association.
Connect With Matt:
On Twitter @ matt_hader
On Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/matt.hader
