I called Rachel, a cutie I’d met two weeks ago at a CD release party. I put on my deep Mack Daddy voice and laid down some game real proper on her.
“I been thinking about you for two weeks, girl.” They fell for that line every time. I arranged a date and told her I’d pick her up at seven.
I pulled up to Rachel’s place at eight-thirty looking too good for her to complain. Besides, how many single, fine, designer suit–wearing young brothers with serious bank roll and no baby-mama drama were pulling up in a style like mine to take her out?
Rachel greeted me at the door looking fresh out of the oven, hot and ready to bite. I stepped back and took in the view. I shook my head and bit my bottom lip. “Hmm, hmm. You are looking too good to me, Shamir—”
“What did you call me?”
I opened my mouth to say “Rachel” again, but it came out “Shamir.”
“Shamir? My name is not Shamir.”
“I know your name.” I pressed my lips together and tried to say her name, but something twisted my tongue again and I said, “Shamir.”
Damn!
She yanked down her tight minidress over her shiny thighs, pointed her finger in my face and read me the riot act. “You have the nerve to come knocking on my door calling me by some other woman’s name after I got all dressed up for you!”
“Wait. I—”
She slammed the door in my face. I knocked again. She hollered from the other side of the door, “What’s my name?”
I tried to holler back, “Rachel,” but it came out “Shaaa-mirrr!”
What the freak was going on with my tongue?
Rachel opened the door again, but this time she threw a bag full of white flour into my face, then slammed the door again. I spat out flour and tried to wipe the white stuff off my brand-new designer dark blue suit but ended up smearing it more.
I don’t believe this. I was ticked off, but I couldn’t blame the girl for being mad. I’d tried to say Rachel, but it kept coming out Shamir.
I turned to leave, feeling like a dumb-ass black Casper the Friendly Ghost, blinking and trying to brush flour out of my eye.
I thought I saw something scurry past my foot.
“Ah!” I jumped. The flour in my eye made my vision blurry and I couldn’t be sure, but the thing looked like a big-ass rat with a tiny Afro.
I looked again and didn’t see anything. I hurried to the elevator.
I got in and started to push the button. Instead of buttons, I thought I saw two big round black eyes.
“Aw, man!” I jerked my hand back and banged my back against the opposite side of the elevator.
I wiped my eyes and looked at the buttons again. The round black eyes were gone and the buttons looked normal. I knew some freaky shit was going on, but I didn’t know how or why or what it was about.
“I’ve got to get outta here,” I said to myself.
I got to the lobby. Instead of the black-and-white tile that was there when I came in, the floor was red and black—like a giant checkers board. I jumped across the squares and left.
I trotted to my car, took a water bottle from my trunk, and rinsed my eyes. My whole day had been messed up. I decided I’d call my boys and maybe hang out, shoot some pool, toss back a brew, and do something to get my head right. But everywhere I looked, I saw those big black saucer-shaped eyes staring back at me.
As I reached for my phone, it rang. An unlisted number. I answered. It was Shamir.
“I’m hanging up.”
“No, wait. Chris, I want to apologize.”
I went silent, left her hanging.
She went on, “I was wrong. I should have told you I had a son. But we were so good together. We can’t just end it like this, not without a good-bye. Come over. Let me make it up to you. Let me show you how sorry I am.”
Make-up sex? Every muscle in my body wanted to hang up on her lying behind for tricking me—except one, and it was already standing at attention. I shifted my belt buckle. Kid or no kid, that woman’s sex was off the hook and well worth the gas money it took to get there. But she’d lied to me. Women don’t lie to Chris Duckett and get away with it. I bit my lip and contemplated.
“Is the kid there?” It’s amazing how a man’s pride gets overruled by his horniness every time.
“No. I took Nehemiah to the babysitter.”
Bingo! Exactly what I wanted to hear, but I played it cool. “I may roll by later.”
I hung up. I swung by the 24-Hour Mini Mart and picked up some ginseng. Don’t get me wrong. I wasn’t getting back with Shamir. I had a strict no-kids policy for the women I dated and I intended to stick to it, but I had a feeling that break-up sex with her was going to be off the chain.
I pulled up to her house. It was late, around half past booty call time. She lived in a bad area on a hill overlooking the city. But I wasn’t as worried about thugs as I was about that spooky-ass snot-nose kid of hers. That little alien gangsta made my briefs creep up into my butt.
I looked around for any signs or clues that the ’fro-haired brat was still around. The house looked dark and quiet. Shamir greeted me at the door in a sexy, sheer lingerie piece that I could see straight through to the promised land.
I brushed past her.
“Where are you going?” she asked.
“I’m checking the house.” I didn’t see any signs of it, but I couldn’t take any chances. Shamir might be lying again. I looked in every room, every closet, the bathroom, the shower, the laundry room, out in the garage, and even the backyard. No sign of the kid.
“Okay, let’s get busy.” I swooped her up and took her into the bedroom. She kept apologizing for not telling me she had a kid, but all I could hear was her body talking to me. That woman was fine and had a body like whoa!
She nibbled my ear. “I want this to be special tonight.”
“Oh, it will,” I said while I tried to bite off her nightie with my teeth. I was already naked.
“Wait, Chris.” Her voice was soft and sexy. “Lay back, boo. Put your hands up and relax.” She moved my hands up over my head, turned off the lights, and scooted down my body.
“Oh yeah. Now, see, that’s what I’m talking about right there.”
She turned me over on my stomach, came back up, and squeezed my wrists. I heard something go click-click and the sound of metal clamping to the bedpost. She’d handcuffed me.
I tried to pull away, struggled, and turned my head to look back at her. “Hold up, woman. What kind of freaky sh—”
“Relax, Chris. Keep an open mind. You’re going to enjoy this.”
She placed the key to the handcuff on the nightstand next to the bed. She pulled a wet towel from her nightstand and started slapping it across my butt. Whap! Whap!
“Woman! Stop it. I’m not into no sick sex!” I craned my neck around in the dark.
She stopped. In a purry, sexy, innocent, girlish voice, she asked, “What? You don’t like it?”
My body was tingling where she’d spanked me and I was as hard as Gibraltar. I hesitated. “Well, it was starting to feel kinda good. Go ahead. But slow down, and not so hard.”
I turned back over and tried to keep an open mind. I felt her crawl back up on the bed, but after two more whaps, it didn’t feel like a wet towel anymore. It felt more like a tiny sneaker kicking my ass.
“What the—”
I turned back around in the dark. Instead of Shamir in a sexy negligee, I made out the dark outline of a lopsided Afro and a big old pair of eyes looking down at me. Nehemiah was standing up on the bed.
“Aw, hell no!”
Nehemiah turned on the light. “You promised we’d play checkers.”
I tried to yank the handcuffs hard enough to break the bedpost, but it wouldn’t budge. “Boy, does it look like I’m trying to play checkers right now?”
I looked around the dark room for Shamir, cussing, frowning, kicking, and trying to get out of the cuffs. “Get off me, man!”
Stuff had gone fro
m kinky to downright spooky. And all this Stephen King bullshit was really starting to piss me off. “Where the hell did your mama go?”
“I dunno. She’ll be back.” He sounded sad.
I was naked, horny, pissed, and freaked the hell out so I really didn’t give a frig. “Reach me that key!”
Nehemiah looked at the key. His eyes brightened. “We gonna play checkers now?”
“Get the key, unlock these handcuffs, and I’ll think about it.” Yeah, right.
He got the key and unlocked me. I grabbed my clothes and threw them on. I felt like kicking my own dumb ass for getting tricked again.
“We gonna play checkers now?”
“Hell no! I’m leaving.”
“When you coming back?”
“Never.”
“You don’t wanna be my daddy?” Nehemiah’s face crumbled into a mess of tears, but I couldn’t help him. I stopped and turned around in the hallway.
“Look, kid. I’m not your daddy. I ain’t never gonna be your daddy. I don’t know where that cat is, but I bet he ain’t coming back ’cause there’s some weird shit going on here with you and your mama. Something ain’t right so I’m getting ghost, too. As for checkers, I hate the game. Sorry. Peace out.”
I slammed the door. He started sobbing so loud I could hear him through the door. I thought I heard him say something like “You are my daddy and you are coming back!” Yeah, right.
The cold night air smacked me in my face. I trotted to my ride. Shamir’s car was still parked in the driveway. That trick, I muttered to myself. Obviously, she was somewhere hiding and playing games while she turned her demon child loose on me. I didn’t have time for that.
I started my ride, threw it in gear, and floored the pedal. The car moved ten feet and stopped. The engine died.
“What the—”
I turned the key in the ignition again and again. Nothing. I got out, looked under the hood. Something thick, brown, and sticky was smeared over the engine. It was shoved inside all the spark plugs and even oozing out the oil tank. I touched it. I smelled it. Peanut freakin’ butter!
I looked back at the house. The place was dark except for Nehemiah sitting in a window with the light shining behind his big lopsided Afro. Even in his silhouette, I could see those big bug eyes looking at me.
I got back into my car and opened my cell phone. I’d call a buddy or the auto club to come get me, whichever was faster, because I just wanted to get the hell out of there. My cell phone said: No signal. Damn Cingular! It smelled funny. I opened the back of it. Brown sticky goo oozed out. More friggin’ peanut butter.
I looked back at the house. Nehemiah opened the door and waved for me to come back. Yeah, right. Screw you.
I got out of my car, gave him the finger, and took off trotting in the opposite direction. I’d go to one of Shamir’s neighbors’ houses and ask to use their phone. I took two steps and heard a growling sound. It was dark. All the streetlights had been busted out, probably by some bad little neighborhood kids like Nehemiah. He was probably the leader of a kiddy street gang called the Lil’ Spooks. I could barely see the sidewalk. I stamped my feet thinking that growl probably came from a stray dog. The thing growled back and if it was a dog, it was the X-Files kind. I did a quick turn and jumped back into my ride.
Screw it. I was on a hill. I decided I’d coast my car back down the hill to the main street, then flag down a car. Nehemiah was still in the window watching me. I threw my car into neutral, released the emergency brake, and started steering it backward, coasting.
I made it about five feet before I hit something in the road. Whatever it was got jammed underneath my back wheels and it stopped the car. Damn! If it was the X-Files dog, then I’d killed it. Good.
I tried to look out my back window but I couldn’t see anything. I didn’t want to get out of my car to see what it was, but I had no choice. Little Spook Boy was still watching me from the house. I took a deep breath and looked around to make sure the coast was clear.
As soon as I put my hand on the door to open it, something popped up at my window right in front of my face.
“Holy shit!”
It was Nehemiah. His face was pressed so close to the window his breath formed a fog. His eyes were big like bowling balls and stared straight through the window at me.
I jumped back. “Back off me, freak boy!”
I slammed the lock down and edged over into the passenger seat. Slowly, the driver’s-side window started rolling down by itself. I hollered again, “This ain’t right. What the—”
The window cracked opened only about three inches and stopped. Nehemiah looked at me, his face all weird and spaced out. He slowly reached his tiny hand through the crack and slid his arm inside. It seemed longer than it should have been. He reached down and popped up the lock, unlocking the door from the inside.
He opened my door. We stared at each other.
Finally, he said, “You wanna come play checkers now?”
I was like, You must be outta your freakin’ little mind! But I didn’t say that; I only thought it.
On the surface, I tried to keep my cool, but it was hard. I knew my ass was in a jam and my balls were quivering. I’d stepped into some weird shit and I needed to figure out how to get out.
I needed to get to a phone. They had one inside. What else was I going to do?
I swallowed and answered him. “Yeah. I’ll play checkers now.”
He backed away from the door and nodded. “C’mon.”
I followed Nehemiah back into the house. My plan was to act cool like I was going to play checkers and when I got a chance, hit the little sucker in his big head, knock him out, grab the phone, and call 911 . . . or something like that.
When I got inside, I saw that Nehemiah had set up the checkers board on the table. He even had cookies and milk on each side of the game board and two chairs set up—a little one for him and a big one for me. I sat down in the big one and watched him. He watched me.
“Your move,” he said. A tiny smirk drew up the edge of his chapped little lips around his elf-size mouth. I didn’t know if he was smiling at me or laughing at my ass.
I went to move my black checker. As soon as I touched it, all of his red checkers stood on edge and spun around real fast like twirling coins, all by themselves. What kind of—
I knocked over my glass of milk.
He reached for it. I stopped him. “No, it’s cool,” I said.
We sat still. He watched me. I watched him. We watched each other, waiting for the next move.
I made it. I picked up my glass. “I’ll go pour me some more,” I said. He looked at my hands. They were shaking. I played it off. I said, real cool, “I’ll be right back.” Yeah, right.
I got up and strutted calmly to the kitchen.
As soon as I got around the corner, I grabbed the kitchen phone off its cradle, ran out the other side of the kitchen, sprinted down the hallway, and ducked into the bathroom. I locked the door and dialed 911. The operator answered.
“Nine-one-one Emergency. What’s your emergency?”
I started whining like a little girl. “A kid with some big freakin’ eyes spanked me with a wet towel, then put peanut butter in my car, and now he’s holding me hostage and making me play checkers—”
Click.
The operator hung up on me.
Think, Chris, man! Get a grip and use your head! I couldn’t tell them all that—even though it was the truth. I had to think of something to say that would not only make them take me seriously, but would also get the police to rush out to the bad neighborhood in the middle of the night.
I called back.
The operator answered. “Nine-one-one. What’s your emergency?”
I said, “Quick! Send a squad car. I just saw O.J. Simpson running down the street with a knife chasing a white woman.”
There was silence on the other end. I knew I was wrong for that, but it’s the only thing I could think of to get the LAPD out q
uick, fast, and in a hurry.
“Hello? Did you hear what I said? I said, O.J.—”
The person on the other end started giggling, and then laughing like a child. He said, “You so funny, Daddy.”
Nehemiah!
I dropped the phone. Nehemiah knocked on the bathroom door.
“Go away, you little freak.” I kicked the door to try to scare him away. I hurt my foot.
I looked down. Brown, thick, sticky goo oozed beneath the door and started sliding into the bathroom. Nah! This ain’t happening. It formed a puddle and started bubbling up like gumbo. It rose three feet high into the air and Nehemiah jumped out.
I tried to holler but choked on my own spit. “Eeck-kka!”
Coughing and gagging, I turned and tried to jump into the shower, but when I jerked the shower curtain back, Nehemiah was standing in the bathtub.
I turned back around and shot out of the bathroom. I ran down the hall and darted into Shamir’s bedroom. I locked the door, blocked it off with a chair, and looked for something to swing at the little monster.
I remembered Shamir kept a baseball bat under the bed. I dropped down, reached under the bed, and felt something furry. An Afro. I looked. Nehemiah’s big black eyes were looking back at me.
“Ahh!”
I fell backward, jumped back up, and sprang to my feet. I pulled on the bedroom door but couldn’t get out. It was jammed. Brown sticky muck was all around the door’s edges, sealing it shut like glue.
I turned around and faced the little demon. I balled up my fist. I’d had enough. Screw child protective laws, I was getting ready to kick his tiny dwarf ass. But then he crawled from under the bed and levitated up to my eye level. And I knew that if he could float up in midair like that, then he could kick my ass, too. I lost it. I started crying.
“Why you messin’ with me, man? I didn’t do nothing to you.”
“Why you messin’ with my mama?” he said with attitude.
“You’re just a kid. You’re too young to understand.”
“Too young, my ass!” He floated around me, looking me up and down. “You horny dudes are all alike.”
Whispers in the Night Page 9
