Plan 9- Official Movie Novelization

by Matthew Warner

  “Someone will report it if it did any damage,” Kelton was saying. “What did it look like?”

  Jeff stared at him. Is he fucking kidding me?

  Danny sucked in his lips before turning away.

  “Like a meteor,” Jeff said.

  “So no description then.”

  “Why don’t you go back to the station and send someone here who’ll take this seriously?”

  The fat ass’s eyes went wide, and he rested one hand on the butt of his gun. Jeff remembered that was one of Kelton’s favorite stances, the I Am An Officer Of The Law pose. “Listen, Jeff. I know how to do my job.”

  “Somehow I doubt that.”

  Officer Kelton took a step forward.

  His partner immediately moved between them—and that, more than anything, clinched Jeff’s suspicion he wasn’t from around here. A Nilbog-ian would’ve let them go at it.

  “Okay, we have your statement,” Officer Larry said. “We’ll head back in and report it to the chief. It’s his call now. You can check in tomorrow morning to get an update. Sound good?”

  Jeff smiled a smile he didn’t feel. “That’ll be fine.”

  “Good. Then we’ll be on our way.” The tall policeman turned to his partner. “Right, Officer Kelton?”

  Kelton glanced up at Larry before grinning, and Jeff suspected that wasn’t a genuine smile, either. He nodded and followed Larry out the door.

  Jeff closed his eyes and tried to get himself under control. Focus on Paula, focus on Paula. As soon as you can get out of here, you’ll be in her arms.

  He listened to Edith Holman pass through the next room, dragging her suitcase on squeaky wheels and muttering under her breath. Mac followed her, calling, “So should I call you, sweetie, or you’ll call me?”

  She answered by slamming the door on the way out.

  Jeff turned to Danny. “Best day ever, right?

  Chapter 2

  KELTON

  As they crossed the airport tarmac back to their cruiser, Larry tapped him on the shoulder. “Why you gotta hassle a guy like that?”

  “Because they make fun of us, Larry. They’re fuckin’ city dicks. There’s no meteor out there. They just want us out in the shit and the mud all night while they’re sitting in some bar laughing.”

  Larry considered this for a while, long enough for them to get in the car and pull back out onto Route 42. Kelton drove—a good thing, since driving always soothed his nerves. It was also long enough for him to believe his partner would drop the matter, so Larry startled him by saying, “You must know him.”

  “What? Who?”

  “The pilot. Jeff Trent?”

  Kelton considered lying, but Larry was too smart. Wasn’t from around here. He nodded.

  “Uh huh. I knew it. What was it? A sports rivalry?” Larry made a show of checking out Kelton’s gut. “Or, I guess not.”

  Kelton ignored him and turned onto Main Street. He stopped to allow a group of trick-or-treaters to cross in front of them. “Sure is warm for Halloween. Bet they’ll get a lot of candy.”

  “A girl. Was it a girl?”

  “Will you just let it go?”

  “It was a girl—or is a girl. I knew it. Was she pretty?”

  The road was clear again. Kelton sighed as he began a circuit around City Hall on the way to the station. Maybe Inspector Clay had left him some doughnuts.

  “Hello…?”

  “She’s pretty.”

  “Is pretty. Aha. So it isn’t a thing of the past.”

  “Larry? Are you a detective, a lawyer, or a patrolman? ’Cause I’m confused.”

  Satisfied, Larry faced front.

  Honestly, sometimes he wished Larry would go back to where he came from. Larry was a city dick, too, but Kelton didn’t regret his earlier comment. There were the townies, and then there was the rest of the world. That’s the way it had always been. The sooner Larry accepted that, the better.

  Not that Kelton hadn’t tried to leave this little hick backwater, many times. Nilbog was a black hole that sucked its residents in with its shitty schools, welfare dependencies, and methamphetamine addictions. One didn’t move away from Virginia towns like this. One escaped.

  Which was reason numero uno he didn’t like Jeff Trent. Jeff was a Nilbog townie, born and bred. But somehow he’d had the brains to get out of here when Kelton didn’t—in fact, when Kelton couldn’t—because unlike Mr. Jeff Big-Swinging-Dick Trent, Kelton had a learning disability that had knocked him out of the running for a college scholarship. Unlike Mr. Jeff Big-Swinging-Dick Trent, who was some big shot airline pilot, he’d had to study his ass off to graduate high school. And getting through the police academy? A fucking miracle. Nilbog was the only police department that would have him. He knew; he’d checked. But at least it was better than the alternative, which was a whole lot of unemployed nothing.

  As for reason numero dos (and he knew dos meant “two”; he’d looked that one up), that went back to the girl. The pretty one. And no, it wasn’t a thing of the past, not for him.

  They were about to swing into the police parking garage when their radio crackled: “Thirty-one, what’s your twenty?”

  Larry picked up the mic. “We’re about to pull into HQ, Chief. What’s up?”

  Police Chief Simpson was also their dispatcher on most days—yet another hallmark of this butthole hicktown (knock it off, Kelton; get your brain back on duty). The chief answered Larry by hawking phlegm, or at least that’s what it sounded like, before saying, “It’s that Rooter woman out on Ashburn Drive. Non-emergency call, but she’s freaking out about her girls again. Uh, did I say that right?”

  “Come back, Chief? Say what right?”

  “‘Freaking out.’ I told you, Wilma says I sound like an old man, so I’m trying to use more slang.”

  “Yeah, you used it right, Chief. We’ll take the call.”

  Kelton turned left at the next traffic light, toward Ashburn Drive. He took the mic from Larry. “Thirty-one.”

  “Go ahead, Kelton.”

  “Chief, you are old.”

  “Knock it off, deputy. By the way, how’s that meteor out at the airport?”

  “Nothing to report. They didn’t see where it came down. If it came down.”

  “Still, maybe I oughta call NASA. See if they know anything.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t do that, Chief.”

  “Yeah? And why’s that?”

  Because Jeff Trent made it up, he wanted to say. Because he’s an asshole who steals other men’s girlfriends.

  When Kelton didn’t answer, the chief came back on the air. “You let me do the thinking, son. I mean…‘dude’? Dude. Just get out to the Rooter place. Over and out.”

  ***

  The Rooter place was a forty-year-old, single-wide trailer home. It had an outhouse on one side and a rust-red Chevy Astro on the other. It was a dirty hovel and a cliché, emblematic of everything Nilbog stood for. Kelton hated it every time he came out here.

  Rachel Rooter wasn’t visible at the moment. Only her crazy-ass sister.

  Myra Applewhite waited for them on a lawn chair by the curb. As Kelton and Larry approached, she ground out a cigarette in the dirt. Beside her sat a rubber bucket half full of Halloween candy. Trick-or-treaters didn’t visit the shitholes on Ashburn Drive, so Kelton guessed Myra was consuming it by herself.

  “You want some?”

  “No, thank you.”

  She leaned over to pick up the bucket anyway, giving them a view down her dirt-stained blouse. She wasn’t wearing a bra. Not a bad sight, all things considered. She was young enough to still have all the colors in her tattoos and smelled like she’d showered within the past month—although maybe just once. But Kelton knew more than a few men who claimed to have caught herpes from her.

  He waved off the bucket. “I said I don’t want any. Thank you, though.”

  “I’ve always liked you, Paul. You’re polite.” Her smile revealed a chancre sore on her upper lip.

/>   Larry cleared his throat. “What do you and your sister need, Myra?”

  “It’s my little nieces. They’re with their father again today. No good son of a bitch.”

  “And?”

  “And nothing. Whenever they’s with him, they end up spending the day with their granddaddy, and he’s crazier than a shithouse rat. Last month, it was the fuckin’ bigfoots. But now he’s got them talking about aliens are comin’. Aliens.”

  Kelton exchanged an eye roll with his partner. “Myra, nothing personal, but where’s their mother?”

  “Huh?” Myra scarfed down a block of Halloween chocolate the shape of a turd. For all he knew, it really was a turd.

  “The girls’ mother. Your little sis.”

  “Aw, she’s back in the house.” Myra gestured toward the single-wide behind her. “She’s shy. I told her she can stay there while I talk to ya.”

  “Sorry, but that’s not the way it works.” Kelton started toward the trailer.

  “What? Shit, hold on, I’ll call ’er.” Myra turned around in her lawn chair. The motion brought the sound of crackling cartilage. “Rachel! Get your ass out here! The pig wants to show you his big gun!” She laughed and laughed and finished by hawking out a wad of chocolate-stained phlegm.

  The smaller, prettier woman emerged from the trailer a moment later and stood by the rickety stoop that led up to the door. She bowed her head, covering her face with long, red hair.

  Kelton approached her across the hardpacked square of lawn. “It’s okay, Ms. Rooter. I just want to talk to you about your daughters.”

  Rachel Rooter wore the same black-and-white dress as always, maybe the only one she owned. It was clean except for a cigarette burn on her lapel. Kelton found that curious since the only person in the household who smoked was Myra. He remembered how in high school the boys called her Roto Rooter. Something about how well she could clean your pipes by giving good head. Looking at the meek woman now, though, he found it hard to believe she’d had any sex other than the kind where she closed her eyes and waited for it to be over.

  “Are you concerned about your daughters? Has your ex-husband threatened them in any way?”

  She shrugged.

  “Ms. Rooter, look at me.”

  The young woman raised her head and brushed her bangs away. Her gaze darted to her sister, standing with Larry over by the lawn chair and candy bucket.

  “No, look at me.” Kelton kept his voice soft so only Rachel could hear. “Was it your decision to call us out here, or did Myra make you?”

  Rachel checked her sister once more before bowing her head again. Her face disappeared behind the curtain of her hair. “I just want what’s best for my girls.”

  “Isn’t this their court-ordered visitation weekend with their father?”

  “Yeah, uh huh.”

  “Has Henry said anything, like he’s not returning the girls to you? What exactly happened?”

  Rachel only shrugged again.

  Myra hollered from across the yard. “You tell ’im! You tell ’im how they’s a bad influence on our girls!” When she took a step forward, Larry held her back. “They’re a bunch of redneck no-goods.”

  Kelton returned to them. He indicated Myra should sit on her lawn chair. She glared at him before doing so.

  “Myra, let me explain something to you. Just because you don’t like your in-laws—”

  “My ex in-laws!”

  “Okay, your ex in-laws. That’s no reason to call the police. Your nieces will be safe with Henry.”

  “You don’t know nothin’ about Henry. Just like that fuckin’ judge. My sister was the one married to him, goddammit. I should know.”

  “Fine.”

  “And if I say the father is an undo influence on our baby girls, then he’s an undo influence.”

  “Ma’am,” Larry said, “have they made any specific threats against you or your nieces?”

  She hesitated. “Well, no.”

  “Then why—”

  “Because whenever Emily and Sarah…”

  Myra doubled over in a great, wracking spasm of coughing. She paused only to spit black saliva at her feet.

  Kelton wondered if she was doing drugs again. He knew—although he shouldn’t have known, but this was a small town—he knew Myra used to push drugs on her little sis. Some mary jane, some meth. The father wasn’t much better, having racked up a couple larceny and assault charges. So the girls had been human volley balls in a custody battle that dumped them in foster homes for the better part of a year.

  But things had been better lately, or so Kelton thought. Shithead Henry now lived with his shithead father and brother, and Rachel here lived with her shithead older sister. Between the two broken families, they scraped together enough Social Security and unemployment benefits to subsist, but it was still a sorry life for those two sweet girls.

  Done coughing, Myra picked up her sentence as if she hadn’t stopped. “Whenever Emily and Sarah come back from seeing their daddy and granddaddy, things go wrong around town. Don’t tell me you never noticed it.”

  “Excuse me?” Larry said.

  “They’re like kerosene and fire. Them girls come back home to me, and boom. Them whores across town turn up with their throats cut out. Boom. That one bitch burst into flames.”

  Kelton knew she referred to two unrelated incidents from the past six months. In one case, one prostitute was murdered, her throat cut, and a migrant worker was now in custody for it. In the other case, an escapee from the mental hospital claimed she was a vampire, so she doused herself in gasoline before smoking a cigarette. Neither of them had squat to do with seven-year-old Emily Rooter or twelve-year-old Sarah.

  Kelton sighed. “Let me get this straight. You called us out here today because you’re worried about what might happen to Nilbog?”

  “Yeah. I’m…whatchamacallit…selfless.”

  “Ohh-kay.” Kelton started back to the police car. Larry followed him.

  “Where you boys going?”

  “To do our jobs.”

  “You mark my words. Them and their granddaddy, they cause bad things to happen.”

  Kelton opened his car door. “Goodbye, Myra.”

  “Hey, you two want a drink before you go?” Myra pulled down the neck of her blouse to expose one flabby boob. She burst into wheezy laughter.

  The sound cut off, thankfully, when they shut their doors. Larry put on his seat belt, shaking his head. “Jesus.”

  “Larry, I am not gonna go bother Henry Rooter just because she got a wild hair up her ass and bullied her little sis into going along with it. This was a bullshit call.”

  Larry shrugged. “Nor should you. But you know what? I bet we’re going out Henry’s place today anyway. Things never wrap up that cleanly.”

  Kelton nodded as he started the engine. “Yeah. Shit leaves a stain.”

  The radio crackled. “Thirty-one, got another call.”

  Larry smiled at Kelton. “Whatcha wanna bet it’s about Henry?”

  “Not taking that bet.”

  Larry picked up the mic. “Go ahead, Chief.”

  “It’s at the other Rooter place. Henry and his brother are fighting again.”

  Larry laughed. “Ten-four. On our way.”

  ***

  If the mother lived in Nilbog’s armpit, then the father lived in its asshole. Henry Rooter’s detached row house, despite its tiny lot, contained a remarkable quantity of trash that Kelton surveyed as he parked the police cruiser at the curb: an old car tire, a rusted bed frame, a broken tricycle, a kiddie pool being used as a Dumpster, and, of all things, a scarecrow constructed entirely of spoons. The peeling structure and its lawn, if one could call that sad patch of weeds a lawn, were a hemorrhoid on the otherwise orderly old street.

  As usual, Jimmy Owens waited for them in the adjacent front yard, wiping his hands on an oily rag. He was a malnourished looking college kid. He and his baby brother alternated time between their divorced parents, a bit like
the Rooter girls. Today, Jimmy was changing the oil on his mother’s car. He’d stopped long enough to call 911 on the neighbors.

  “Hey, Jimmy,” Larry called as they got out of the cruiser.

  “Hey! You guys gonna talk to them again?”

  “Yeah. Doing our daily duty.”

  Daily was an exaggeration, but Kelton didn’t feel like correcting them. Everyone knew the score. The last time he and Larry were here was a couple weeks ago. Henry and his brother were throwing bricks at each other’s heads. Jimmy had said he was as sick of calling the police on the Rooter brothers as the police were of him calling. But Jimmy also said he had a soft spot for the two girls and couldn’t stand seeing the daddy and uncle trying to kill each other. For a college kid, Kelton thought that was mighty nice of him.

  The Rooter house was dark and silent. It didn’t have its porch light on to invite trick-or-treaters, but Kelton thought that was just as well.

  He faced Jimmy Owens across the narrow strip of grass separating the two yards. “What’d you see this time?”

  “Well, first they were just screaming and hollering a lot. I was out here working when they came out the door. I think Henry was trying get to his truck.”

  Kelton glanced at the rusted-out Ford at the curb. “What were they saying?”

  “Henry was like, ‘You are fuckin’ encouraging them,’ and Butch was like, ‘They’re your fuckin’ daughters’ and ‘suck it.’ A whole lot of ‘suck it.’ And that’s when he pushed him, and Henry started punching him, and they went back inside. Then I heard Emily screaming.”

  “Emily was screaming?”

  “Yeah, I think it was her. Did I do right calling you?”

  At that moment, the Rooter door flew open. Six-foot-three Henry pushed his younger brother onto the lawn. Butch sprang back up and readied to punch him in return.

  Kelton and Larry separated the two men. “Hey hey hey! Calm down! Calm down!”

  Butch was built like a horse—big muscles bunched under a wife-beater T-shirt. But one look at his Down Syndrome unibrow told you he didn’t have the mind to match. That’s probably why he didn’t shut up although the police were there. “Go suck it! Suck an egg!”

  Kelton planted a hand on his chest to hold him back. Thankfully, Butch was at least smart enough to let him.