Whispers in the Night by Brandon Massey Page A

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.
    â€œWhaaat? 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: 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.
    â€œI ain’t your daddy.”
    He yelled back, “That ain’t what Dana said.”
    â€œWho the hell is Dana ?”
    â€œD.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!”
    â€œHe’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.
    â€œYou 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.
    â€œWhat 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.
    â€œC’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.
    â€œWhere we going?”
    â€œI’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