Whispers in the Night

by Brandon Massey

  “Where’s his daddy? MIA?”

  Shamir nodded.

  “Can I call you Daddy?” the little thing standing at the edge of the bed asked me.

  “Aw, heelll—” I couldn’t even find the words. I jumped back and banged my butt into the closet doors.

  I turned my back to it and whipped on my shoes. I couldn’t believe this mess—something out of The Twilight Zone or some messed-up stuff like that. And I could tell right off the bat something wasn’t right about this kid. She called him special. More like spooky if you ask me, especially with the strange way he looked at me with those big old eyes.

  I ignored the kid’s crazy-ass request about him calling me “daddy” and laid into Shamir, who was combing her hair like this was no big deal.

  “We’ve been kicking it for two whole months. You never said nothing about a—” I turned to point at it again, but it’d jumped from the door and blindsided me on my left. I whipped around and kept my eye on him. Obviously, he was a sneaky little SOB. He kept his eye on me, too. I couldn’t tell if he was smiling or laughing at my ass.

  Shamir said, “I didn’t think it mattered. Chris, you and I get along so good together.”

  “It matters. We got along good because you didn’t have a—uh.” I turned to point, but the boy was gone.

  He yelled from the other side of me, “A kid!” completing my sentence like I needed help.

  I backed away again and stubbed my toe on the bed. “Damn! Stop jumping up on me like that, you sneaky little midget!”

  “If you’d just give Neh a chance—” Shamir started, but I stopped her quick with that line.

  “I’m going to give you a chance to see the back of my head.”

  I snatched up my wallet and the keys to my ride and got ghost, but before I could make it out the front door, that little bugger had run up on me again. He even beat me to the door.

  “What the—How’d you do that?”

  He had the nerve to grab my shirttail and try to yank me down.

  “I said, can I call you Daddy?” He poked his bottom lip out with an attitude, like I owed him an answer.

  I leaned down to his level. I removed my shirttail from his sticky little peanut butter grip and looked down at my brand-new white Sean John button-up shirt. Brown sticky stains were smeared all over it. Damn it. I looked into those big old magnifier eyes of his.

  “Look here, you little peanut-butter-smelling, magnifier-eyed, big-headed little skunk. The only thing you can call me is Mr. Invisible Man ’cause you ain’t never gonna see me again. Peace out!”

  I walked out and slammed the door behind me. He opened the door and hollered at my back. “You coming back tonight? I got checkers. You like checkers?”

  I kept walking, didn’t look back. I walked to the curb where I’d parked my ride. I got in, started it up, and shook my head. I couldn’t believe this shit. I’d kicked it with that girl for two whole months. She never said nothing about no kid. Sometimes we’d kick it at my condo, but most times we hung at her house since her neighbors weren’t as close and we could get loud. I’d never seen a toy, a bicycle, a pair of Spider-man briefs—nothing that would clue me in that she had a kid.

  I drove back to my place, still shaking my head. Her body was tight, too. Old girl could bounce a basketball off her abs. No stretch marks. Nothing.

  I got home, jumped in the shower, and kept thinking. She didn’t act like a mother, neither. She never had to get home early. Never said a thing about finding a babysitter. I’d call her, she’d say what’s up? I’d say let’s go and we’d roll to the beach, a movie, dinner, a club. We even did two weekends in Vegas at a moment’s notice. I didn’t get it. How could she have a kid right under my nose the whole time and I not know it?

  I got out the shower and kept thinking about it. The sex. Whoa! No way could she be somebody’s mother. Nobody’s “mama” was supposed to do it like that. Old girl was a freak.

  Naked and wet, I picked up the phone and called her. “You lying. That ain’t your child.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “You made me think you didn’t have one. You deceived me,” I said, self-righteously indignant.

  “You deceived me, too.”

  “I ain’t lied about nothing.”

  “You said you could last a whole hour.”

  “Shut up.” I hung up the phone. This was serious and she was trying to change the subject.

  I didn’t have time for this. I got dressed, checked my suit, and slipped my Rolex on my wrist. I rushed out the door. I had things to do. I was Chris “Crisp Dollar” Duckett, owner and CEO of the premier Los Angeles music promotion company, not to mention bachelor extraordinaire. Hard, lean, and mean, that’s how I did things. Ask anybody. They’d tell you. And don’t believe that lie about not lasting an hour. The girl was out of her mind. She lost track of time. Believe that.

  I had a meeting with Nelly’s people that morning. I was making power moves, shaking it up and baking things, and as usual, things were going my way . . . until my secretary beeped in.

  I pushed the intercom button. “What’s up? You know I’m in a meeting.”

  “Yes, but, Mr. Ducket, I think you need to come out to the lobby.”

  “I don’t need—” I calmed myself. “This had better be important.” I got up and apologized to the people in my office. “Excuse me for a sec.”

  I stepped outside my office, walked down the hall, and opened the lobby door. My secretary and a bunch of other people were standing around a water fountain watching somebody perform.

  I walked over there. A little midget wearing sunglasses was standing on top of the water fountain, his pants sagging below his Spider-roo underwear. Nehemiah?

  He was blowing up a karaoke microphone hooked up to an amplifier, rapping and impersonating artists I’ve promoted—Bow Wow. Lil’ Flip. Twista. Ludacris. D4L. And the little sucker was good, too.

  I squeezed through the crowd as he started his Lil’ Jon impersonation. He deepened his voice, picked up a drink, pulled on his cap, and put in his silver teeth, the whole nine.

  “Whaaat? Whaaat? Yeaahh!”

  The little punk had mad talent, especially to be only five years old. I ain’t never seen nothing like it.

  He had a cardboard sign at his feet: CHRIS DUCKETT DON’T WANNA BE MY DADDY: HELP A LIL’ BASTARD OUT. People were breaking off large bills and tossing them into his bucket.

  He spotted me in the crowd and lowered his dark sunglasses. He raised one bushy eyebrow over the top and hooked his big bug eye on me.

  He pointed at me. “There my daddy is right there!”

  People turned around and started hissing at me.

  “I ain’t your daddy.”

  He yelled back, “That ain’t what Dana said.”

  “Who the hell is Dana?”

  “D.N.A.!” Nehemiah started crying. Not a little boo-hoo-hoo, but big old nasty blubbering snotty nose wet wailing like somebody had stolen his candy and smacked him upside his head.

  A lady hauled off and clocked me with her Gucci bag. “How could you forsake a little kid like that?”

  Another one poked me in my back. “You men like making babies but then don’t want to take care of them.”

  Another one shoved me. “Dogs! All of you!”

  “He’s lying!” I pushed my way through the crowd, grabbed the cardboard sign, and tore it up. “This ain’t my kid!”

  Nehemiah kept crying louder and even started blubbering into the mic, turning the whole water fountain performance into a riot scene. That lil’ bastard really knew how to work a crowd. He moved his little balled-up hands away from his wet eyes long enough to shoot me a smile that nobody could see but me. Could have sworn I saw some fangs on those little teeth.

  “You little sucker—” I grabbed his ankle. He kicked me with his other sneaker. I cocked back and was about to smack him when two big, buff, Suge Knight–looking brothers stepped forward.

  “What you thinking about doin
g?” the one with the prison tats snarled at me.

  I wasn’t scared.

  Hell. Yes, I was. I let go of Nehemiah’s ankle. “I’m thinking about taking him to his mother. That’s all, my brotha.”

  I backed up and smiled, but threw Nehemiah an I’m-gonna-kick-your-short-little-ass look.

  Nehemiah dried up his tears, leaped off the fountain, and jumped into me, grabbing me around my neck. “Daddy! Daddy!”

  The crowd applauded.

  The lady with the Gucci bag patted me on my shoulder. “That’s right. Be responsible. Do the right thing. You know you’re that kid’s daddy. Look at his head. It’s big, just like yours.”

  I grabbed Nehemiah by the neck. The big guy with the prison tats leaned forward. I smiled, lovingly, and removed my hands from Nehemiah’s neck.

  “C’mon!” I shoved the kid out the front door with me. I stomped through the parking lot to my ride. He struggled to keep up.

  “Where we going?”

  “I’m taking you to your mama,” I threatened him, thinking he’d cry at the prospect of a butt whipping.

  He shrugged. “Aw, that ain’t nothing but a chicken wing.”

  Obviously, Shamir wasn’t beating his behind enough. I kept walking fast. “How’d you get out here? You ain’t old enough to catch a bus.”

  Nehemiah’s dirty little white sneakers did a flurry and he caught stride with me into the parking lot, even passed me. The kid was fast for his age.

  He puffed out his little chest. “I don’t need a bus, fool.”

  Fool? I bent down to pop him, but he hollered and the buff dude came outside the building. I patted him on his head, threw him into the back of my ride, and pulled off.

  I headed down Wilshire. He crawled from the backseat to the front. “I’m hungry! Look! Burger King.”

  Burger King was up ahead on the right. He demanded that I pull over and feed him, like that was my job. I stayed in the far left lane and raised my eyebrow at him. His big old round Martian eyes looked at me like he dared me to pass up Burger King.

  I said, “You’d better stick your head out the window, open your mouth, and try to inhale, because that’s as close as you’re gonna get to eating a hamburger in my car.”

  He lowered one of his bushy eyebrows, narrowed those big old eyes, and glared at me, like he was going to do something.

  “What? Am I supposed to be scared or something?”

  All of a sudden, the wheel of my ride jerked hard to the right. My car shot across two lanes and cut in front of an MTA bus. The bus slammed on its brakes and skidded. It blasted its horn and came within inches of my back bumper. Every passenger on the bus along with the bus driver yelled and cussed at me through the window. I tried to brake and swerve, but my ride jetted up into the Burger King parking lot, bounced over the curb, sideswiped the drive-through sign, and came to a skidding halt in front of the plastic Burger King talking head. My window rolled down by itself.

  The plastic head said, “Have it your way at Burger King. May I take your order?”

  I caught my breath and said the first thing that popped into my head. “Oh, shit!”

  The plastic head said, “That’s not on our menu. Try up the street at McDonald’s. I hear they serve nothing but oh, shit burgers.”

  Nehemiah started cracking up. He crawled over me, stuck his head out the window, and started talking to the plastic king head like they knew each other from way back.

  “Whassup, King Homie? Whatchu got cooking today?”

  The head said, “Hey, Neh, what’s up, partna? Where you been?”

  “Just hanging low, you know how it go.”

  Cars behind me started blowing their horns. I couldn’t even drive off because my ride wouldn’t move. And I still felt like I was about to shit my pants.

  “What’d you do to my car?” I tried to push Neh off me.

  “Wait, Negro. I ain’t ordered yet.”

  Nehemiah ordered two of everything on the menu. He turned to me. “You hungry?”

  “No! I ain’t hungry.”

  He said to the plastic king, “Give my daddy a Whopper.”

  When he said whopper he stomped his sneaker down in my lap and crushed my balls. I muffled about twenty curse words and threw him back into the passenger seat. I balled up my fist. He pointed at the plastic king. “They got a camera in his eye.”

  I checked myself, muttered a few more four-letter words, and drove up to the window. Three teenage girls ran to the service window, handed me the food, and blew kisses at Nehemiah.

  “He’s sooo cute.” They looked at me. “Ooh, is this your daddy?”

  Nehemiah giggled and lied, proudly. “Yeah.”

  “I’m not his daddy. Look, I just want to get out of here. How much for the food?”

  “For cute little Neh, it’s on the house.” They blew him more kisses. He batted his big old eyelashes down over his big old eyes.

  I screeched off. Halfway down the block, the smell of that Whopper started tearing up my stomach and hunger pains hit me so hard, I almost couldn’t drive. “Give me a damn bite.”

  He threw a Whopper at me. “Told you you was hungry.” The little arrogant squirt laughed like he had some kind of control over me. I hated that, but I tore into that burger like a hungry pit bull. Dang, it was good.

  I got to Shamir’s beauty shop, threw my ride into Park, and cut off the engine. “Sit your dwarf behind here while I go get your mama.”

  I locked all the doors, rolled up the windows, and activated my car alarm. I was mad. No, pissed. This kid was messing up my whole day.

  I stomped into the shop. Shamir was doing a nearly bald-headed lady’s hair. I grabbed her hand as she was applying the hot curlers.

  “How you gonna let your badass kid run all around the city while you go to work without getting a babysitter?”

  Shamir almost burned me with the hot curling iron. I took it away from her and set it down. Her customer complained. I told her, “Shut up, turn around, and mind your own bald-headed business.”

  Shamir made excuses for her parental negligence. “Neh don’t like babysitters. They can’t really control him.”

  “That ain’t no excuse. He needs that butt tapped to get him in line. Come get him or else I’m going to—” Before I could finish my threat, my car alarm started blasting.

  I ran outside. Shamir followed me. When we got to my ride, the alarm was blasting but the car was empty. No kid. My rear window was busted out.

  “What the—I know he didn’t—” I looked inside my car. My CD player was missing. “Aw, hell nah—” I flipped open my cell phone. “I’m calling the police.”

  Shamir grabbed my arm. “But he’s just a kid.”

  “Nah, he ain’t. He’s a little demonic—” Just then, a squad car rolled by and I flagged it down. The cop got out.

  “I’ve just been jacked and I know who did it.” I started giving him a description. “He’s about three feet tall, big lopsided Afro, big eyes like two black flying saucers.”

  “A midget jacked you?”

  “Nah. Not a midget.”

  “An alien?”

  “Nah, worse. A kid! About five years old with a weird, spaced-out look about him.”

  The cop cocked his head to the side like I was crazy. “Five years old?”

  “Yeah, that’s right. It’s her son.” I pointed to Shamir. “Go on, tell the cop about your little spooky Bebe kid.”

  Shamir shrugged innocently.

  The cop said, “I don’t have time to play games with you, mister.”

  “I’m not playing. There’s something wrong with that kid. I locked him up inside my car, rolled up all the windows and—”

  “What did you just say?” The officer’s eyes got suspicious. He placed his hand on his gun belt like he was about to arrest me. “You locked a kid inside your car on a hot day like this?”

  I backed up. “ Nah, I didn’t really say I—”

  “Do you realize I could take you in on a
felony for that?”

  “I didn’t actually—”

  The cop reached for his handcuffs. Just then, we heard a loud bang on top of my car. Nehemiah dropped down from the tree where he’d been hiding. His sneakers put a dent in my hood.

  The cop asked, “Is this the kid you locked inside your car?”

  I looked at Nehemiah. “Uh—”

  The cop opened his handcuffs, pointed at me, and asked Nehemiah, “Did this man right here lock you in that car, little fella?”

  Nehemiah said to the cop, “Let me get this straight. If I say yes, you gonna haul his ass off to jail?”

  The cop nodded.

  Shamir said, “Neh, be nice.”

  Nehemiah looked at me. “You coming to my house to play checkers?”

  I remained silent. He waited for my answer. I couldn’t tell if that smirk on his face meant he was being nice or if he was laughing at my ass.

  I looked at the cop, looked at the handcuffs. I put on a fake smile and lied, “Yeah, little man. We gonna play checkers.”

  Nehemiah told the cop, “No, he didn’t lock me in the car. He’s my daddy!”

  The cop looked at me. “You’re lucky I’m not arresting you. But you seriously need some parenting classes.” The cop got into his squad car and left.

  I didn’t say another word to the kid or his mama. I got into my busted car and started it up.

  Nehemiah ran up to my door. “Hey, where you going?”

  I gave him the middle finger and drove off.

  I ran my hand down over my tired face. Lack of sleep and those big spooky eyes on that weird kid had me on edge. I didn’t feel like going back to my office. I knew they were going to ask me a whole lot of questions I didn’t feel like answering.

  I went back to my place. I called around to auto repair shops and arranged to get my window fixed, get new rims, and have a new CD player put in. I couldn’t drive around in a busted car with no music. I had a reputation to uphold.

  By the time I got my ride fixed, it was late. I needed a drink. I wanted to forget all about that fine-ass Shamir—the female I’d wasted two whole months kicking it with only to find out she not only had a kid, but had Rosemary’s baby boy. Bebe’s kids ain’t got nothing on that little alien. I flipped open my PDA and went through my “unused” numbers. I always kept a reserve for emergencies just like this.