Whispers in the Night (9 page)

“Are you looking to die, old man?” he asked me, frothing with rage at my impact on his inventory.

“You have no idea,” I told him.

“Tough,” he said.

My mama used to tell me that if wishes were horses, beggars could ride. Her words came screaming back to me as I watched a wave of Browder's skillet-sized palm prompt every glass shard and every drop of spilled liquor to leap back into place.

If I'd blinked I would have missed it; the flash reverse motion of exploded glass vessels reconstituting like jigsaw puzzles assembled by phantom hands. I cussed at the sight of the full, intact bottles sitting unbroken as you please upon the tiers of the bar behind him.

“Do you honestly think you're the first of the insects I collect ever to attempt what you just did?” he said. His mouth had a way of smiling without letting the rest of his face in on the act.

Carter's gun hadn't helped me worth a damn, but I kept it between Browder and me anyway. I felt less naked with it there. “What the hell is this place?” I demanded, no longer doubting my knowledge of the answer to the question, but fearing to know what I knew. “Where am I?”

“It's like the man said,” he told me, nodding at Carter. “You're home.”

“I tried to tell him,” Carter assured the bartender, who seemed to be gaining height by the second.

“Bullshit,” I declared, unsure which of them I was addressing.

Browder said, “Listen, old man. I'd say I was sorry for your loss, if I truly were. Truth is, though, that you deserve to be here as much as any of these other losers.”

I ain't never been the kind of man to let a face-to-face insult stand. I figured it was time to die with my boots on, so I stepped up to the bar and hoisted myself up on my palms as close to his nose as I could. “The fuck did I do to deserve your ugly fucking mug pouring me that piss-spiked sewage you call beer night after night without end?”

“What, indeed,” Browder said, snatching up a nearby newspaper kept on hand for drunks who read while they boozed and hurling it into my arms. “Even a befuddled old sot should be able to add two plus two.”

I took his statement as my cue to turn to page four and found a black-and-white photo of a little girl named Emily at the top of the page. She was black, 'bout six years old. A couple of cottony-looking pigtails framed her little apple of a face. She had a smile on her that I couldn't help returning even though it was just a photo. It was the last smile that would ever touch my face.

Emily had my last name.

The article accompanying the photo cited my name as the driver of the vehicle that had killed us both when it plunged into a ravine on our way to the house where her mother and her new husband lived. According to the article, I'd had three times the legal amount of alcohol in my system.

I needed to sit down and scream my way through the tears that followed the revelation, so that's what I did. I'd had a daughter. I'd had a daughter whom I'd killed and a wife, and had apparently fucked up the latter relationship so severely that she'd moved on. And my punishment was to have to choose every night for the rest of eternity. Either sit here and let the memories drive me as mad as Carter, or drink them dead.

Old Man Solomon came to rest a hand on my shoulder and told me, “My wife, Loretta was her name. Four-car pileup. Could have been avoided if I hadn't fled after accidentally running down a mother and child. I hung on for three weeks on life support. Everyone else died instantly.”

The pub door opened. When I looked up and seen the pretty Latin girl from the accident on the television earlier walk in, I nearly died. Apparently, it wouldn't be the first time.

Solomon said, “I don't want to forget my Loretta. Guess I'm not like most folks. Most folks who end up here want to forget their sins. They all want to forget eventually.”

He hobbled away as Browder returned to offer me a cup of black-labeled anesthesia.

I watched a stronger man than myself make his way to the restroom, and I ordered up an ass-kicking in a glass.

Lexi Davis

“A
re you my daddy?”

“
Hey-ll
no.” I grabbed my pants and jumped away from it—I mean, the kid. Shamir acted like nothing was going on.

“You didn't tell me you had a,
uh
—
uh
—one of those!” I pointed.

Shamir got out of bed, naked and indecent
,
and put on her robe like it wasn't nothing. “You didn't ask.”

“The hell I didn't.” I swung my legs around to the opposite side of the bed and scooted into my pants, trying to get away from his big spotlight eyes that searched me up and down like he was on the kiddy LAPD squad. “I
told
you, no
kids
. I got too much going on. Kids are complications. I can't even kick it with a woman who has kids, and I for damn sure don't want none of my own.”

“But, Chris, that's Nehemiah. He's
special
.”

“Special?” I stood with my back against the closet, my mouth all twisted up to show my pissivity.

I looked at the kid. A kid was a kid. This one had the biggest dang eyes I'd ever seen—like that
Boondocks
cartoon boy. Hair like him, too—a lopsided, oversized Afro. Other than that, Nehemiah—or whatever she claimed his name was—was just another little snotty-nosed brat.

“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.

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: C
HRIS 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 doing?” 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?”