Drama Is Her Middle Name (17 page)

25

The newspapers and all of the cable outlets, from BET to
Entertainment Tonight
, picked up the Pastor Lakes exposé. Of
course, Ritz was getting all of the credit. Ritz had almost certainly ruined the career of a very beloved minister—taking
him down with one salacious interview. And while she
wasn't gloating too much, she was happy about the press she
was getting. It was so surreal that she floated through her shift
not even noticing that it was time to leave. She was so
caught up in her own smell that she totally ignored Chas.
She didn't even thank him.

But for Ritz, everything was going according to plan. She
was on her way to clearing more stations and then television.
She would be queen of all media, just as she had envisioned.

Ritz was in her pink office, going over the latest graft from
a star. It was a package that included jeans and the latest J.Lo
fragrance from Jennifer Lopez's Sweet face Company.

Chas didn't believe in sulking. He was the master of the
masks. So he put on his happy face and kept it moving.

“You did your thing, girlie!” he said, trying to prompt some
gratitude.

“Yes, I did,” she said. “I mean,
we
did! Team, group hug!”

Ritz gathered Chas and Aaron and Jamie over into a
huddle.

“I love you guys!” she said. “I couldn't do this without you.
Thank you.”

“Baby, it's all you,” Chas said.

“Ritz, you're the best,” Jamie said.

“Oh, what an ass kisser,” Aaron said to Jamie. “Wipe that
shit off your lips!”

“Aaron, shut up,” Ritz said. “My ass is far too clean for me
to leave any stains.”

They all broke into laughter.

“Oh, and, Jamie, I almost forgot . . .”

“Yes?” Jamie said.

“Can you come in a little early on Monday before the
show?” Ritz said. “There's something I need to talk to you
about.”

“Uh-oh,” Aaron said.

“Sure, Ritz,” said Jamie, a little nervous. Ritz could be
filled with drama and suspense, but now she actually sounded
excited. She was going to offer Jamie a full-time position as
an assistant producer. In addition to getting Ritz's hair for her
weaves and buying her weekly and monthly magazines and
daily papers, she would be given some booking responsibilities and input into the show. And, oh yeah, she would be getting a real salary.

“Aaron, do me a favor?” Ritz said.

“Anything, my queen,” he said.

“Make sure Jamie gets to the train safely.” Ritz smiled and
winked at Aaron. “And make sure the two of you don't stick
around too late.”

“Sure thing, Ritz!” Aaron beamed.

Jamie didn't have a clue that Aaron was beaming because
Ritz was looking out for him. Jamie had no idea that Aaron
had a huge crush on her and gave him a swift punch to the
gut.

“What are you smiling about, fool?” Jamie said.

“Nothing! Damn, girl!” said Aaron.

Ritz watched them leave the office, then she realized she
was cutting it close. If she left any later, Tracee would be
waiting at the airport. And Tracee hated to wait.

Her best friend was coming to town, and Ritz had insisted
on picking her up. She was so excited to show Tracee her latest toy and her biggest splurge—her new Aston Martin, with
the special-order champagne–peanut butter paint. She had
given the detailers a lock of the weave she was sporting to
match the color perfectly. The car had custom Coach leather
interior—the kind you usually find in a Lexus. It was the
biggest splurge Ritz had made. Chas talked her into it.

“Look, diva, you cannot be a star driving around in a what?
A Denali?” Chas said. “You better stop playing with your success like that. If you are going to be in this game, you have to
have the tricks of this trade.”

Ritz had to admit she was loving the new Ritz with the
new toys. But she still held on to a little of the old Ritz. Inside she still remembered when she and her mother struggled.
So now she made sure she paid cash for practically everything. She had great credit but she understood the business.
You could be hot today and “Who's she?” the next day. And
even success didn't guarantee that she would end up on top.

She remembered the stories of the famed Frankie Crocker,
a radio pioneer who paved the way for many of the people
who eventually made radio a career. He literally revolutionized radio with his style and voice. Radio changed forever because of Frankie, and he died in 2000 before the age of sixty,
broke. There was even a rumor that there wasn't enough
money left to pay for a tombstone.

Frankie Crocker was a man whose life was a flamboyant
example of success. He reportedly had affairs with beautiful
women like Raquel Welch, and he regularly rode though
Central Park in a horse-drawn carriage. He even drove a
Bentley—that was before rappers made that a standard. But
he left nothing behind but debt, back taxes, and memories.
Ritz would not go out like that. She wanted to own her shit
outright.

So she went to the Aston Martin dealer on Eleventh Avenue in Manhattan and whipped out one hundred eighty
thousand in bank checks. When she got a new piece of jewelry from Ben and Eddie at B&B Jewelers in Wayne, New Jersey, it was nothing but cash. And when she bought her furs
from Pete and Bill over at Dimitrio Furs on Thirtieth Street,
she paid cash. Cash was king. The only thing she owed
money on was her home and her condo in Miami, which she
rented out and turned a profit on every month.

Chas had turned her on to fur and she was sprung. Ritz was
known for wearing fur in the summer. She even had a mink
midriff custom-made. And she wished one of those PETA
muthafuckers would throw some red paint on her furs. Then
there would be another public scandal for the papers to write
about following the ass-whipping she was prepared to throw
down.

It had been just two years since Ritz's career officially took
off, and she was certainly in a different place. The memories
of being broke were still fresh, however. She refused to go
back.

“I'll not be some broke-ass, cat-food–eating bitch,” Ritz
would say. “I'll at least be able to get some return on my shit
if I need it.”

Ritz was getting ready to finally leave the studio. She
grabbed her white, calf-length fur and started gathering her
effects, which she spread out on the desk everyday—cell
phone, notepad and pen for notes, and a mirror (to check her
face because you
never
knew who would be coming into the
studio).

“Whatcha doing tonight?” Ritz said to Chas.

“I'm sticking around to make some phone calls on the station's dime,” Chas said.

“That's my Mr. Frugal,” Ritz teased.

“Well, if I was making your dough, I wouldn't have to
worry,” he said.

“You do fine,” she said.

“You do
finer
,” he said.

The two chuckled and Ritz gave Chas a peck on the
cheek, Ritz clutching her white Gucci bag. The man at The
Mall at Short Hills told her that there were only three of
those bags in the entire country. It set Ritz back fifteen thousand dollars, but as Chas so aptly pointed out, she could afford it. Between her annual raises, her quarterly bonuses based
on her ratings, and the appearances she was doing, Ritz was
pulling down more than a million dollars a year. She was a
long way from ramen noodles and crossed fingers on rent day.

Chas offered to take her bag for her as they walked out of
the studio to the elevator bank.

“Yeah, right! I knew you were eyeing my bag for a minute.
I got this,” she said, smiling, as they headed out of the studio
door.

“I just thought that with that boulder on your finger, you
might not have the strength to grab your bag, too,” said Chas,
referring to the twelve-carat pink diamond Ritz bought herself the day before. She thought Chas would never notice.
Chas had wanted to say something during the show about it
but didn't get the chance.

“Have fun this weekend with Tracee,” Chas said. “But
don't have too much fun. You know how jealous I get when
you leave me out of the rein-
girl
games.”

“Boy, please!” she said. “If you're not doing anything later,
drop in. I know Tracee would love to see you.”

Ritz admired herself in one of the eight mirrored elevators
at the elevator bank as they waited for one to open. She had
her Gucci frames in her hair, holding her weave nicely in
place. She had on a winter-white silk blouse under her winter-white fur, a winter-white Cavali skirt and custom-made Jimmy
Choos. Ritz looked this good every day (runway ready!). But
today she
felt
extra good.

Ritz knew this opportunity doing the Grammy show could
lead to a regular weekly television gig if she played it right.
And she planned on doing just that. Everything was all
planned out—proper planning—and she was ready. Ritz
Harper was exactly where she wanted to be professionally.
She had money, success, and fame. She was
this close
to being
the queen of all media. Ritz's personal life was as sketchy as a
spider web, but she figured she was young enough to focus on
that later. Her biological clock was about ten years from
winding down. Hell, women were having their first babies for
well into their forties. She would find a man and all of that,
but not until she completely conquered all there was to conquer in her field.

Ritz let out a satisfied breath into the chilly February air as
she rounded the corner toward her car. She could see the
nose of her Aston Martin Vanquish poking out from the
garage—shiny and just waiting for her. Ritz opened her pocketbook to get her parking ticket stub.

Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop!

Ritz couldn't imagine lying on the hard concrete in New
York City, her life not only passing before her eyes but passing literally out of her body. Ritz Harper never imagined she
would die like this.

26

NEWARK AIRPORT

8:05 P.M.

Tracee made sure to bring only a carry-on bag so she wouldn't
have to check any baggage and be more annoyed than she already was. The new federal rules at the airports were becoming tiresome. “Terrorism, smerrorism,” she thought when she
had to take off her shoes for the third time before boarding
Flight 812 to Newark from Orlando. That's just why she
stopped flying so much.

“Next time I'm taking Amtrak,” she thought. “They don't
even check your bags on the train, and I could get some sleep
and not suck back all of the recycled, bad filtered air.”

Tracee walked through the airy, glass-enclosed Newark
Airport, passed Sbarro's and all of the lovely new shops along
food row. She avoided the conveyor belts that carried the
simply lazy from Point A to Point B. Since moving to Winter Garden, Tracee learned to appreciate staying fit. She tried
to run three miles every day around the grounds inside her
gated community. While Tracee had always had a nice shape,
she was extra tight now between running and swimming in
her pool.

She walked briskly past the baggage claim area out to the
ground transportation area. Ritz had said she would meet her
out front near the taxis, and said she had a surprise. Tracee
grabbed her Motorola Razr out of her Coach bag.

The time on her phone read eight-twenty. Ritz was supposed to be there by eight-fifteen. Tracee checked to see if
there were any messages on her phone. None. She was surprised that Ritz hadn't called. She always called when she
was running late—which was always. Tracee decided to call
to check in. Tracee was sent straight to voice-mail. She left a
message.

“Hey, girl. It's me. My plane just landed and I don't have
any luggage so I'm outside waiting for you.”

Tracee looked up and down to see if she could spot Ritz's
new Aston Martin.

“Now, what color did she say it was?” Tracee tried to remember. “Peanut butter something. To match her hair? That
fool!”

There was nothing remotely close to a peanut butter–colored Aston Martin in sight.

The air felt exceptionally cold to Tracee after coming from
the eighty-degree Orlando weather that she was now accustomed to. She looked down at her Nike Shox, which she had
bought at the Nike outlet. She was pleased that despite being
cold her feet were completely comfortable.

“Maybe she forgot the terminal,” Tracee thought.

She quickly grabbed her cell phone again, remembering
that she had turned it off to preserve whatever small amount
of battery life she had left. Her phone beeped letting her know
the SIM card had reestablished. Sure enough, there was a
message.

“Hi, baby, this is Chas.” Tracee smiled when she heard the
familiar voice, but he didn't sound like himself. He sounded
tired. “Tracee, I need you to take a cab to Sixty-eighth Street
and York Avenue when you get this. Please call me when you
arrive so I can meet you outside. I don't want you to be any
more up—” Tracee's phone died.

She felt panic run through her body. A panic she hadn't
felt since her days at the record company. What was going on
and where was she meeting Chas? And why? And where was
Ritz?

Tracee picked up her large Coach sack and walked to the
cab stand, got in line, and waited for the next cab. Before she
got in, she asked the line attendant if they accepted credit
cards. Tracee almost never carried cash. And because she expected Ritz to pick her up, she didn't have a significant
amount of cash on hand—at least not enough for the eighty-plus-dollar ride into Manhattan. Her grandmother's advice
would have come in handy, had she heeded it.

“Baby, I don't care where you go or what you do. If you go
out, make sure you have enough cash to get home. I know
you like the plastic. But cash will always be king!”

Tracee stepped into the yellow cab. It was dank and smelly
in the back.

“Do you take credit cards?” Tracee asked, just to verify.

“Sure, sure!” the cab driver responded in a strong West
African accent. He asked where she was headed.

Tracee gave him the address and tried not to let her imagination get the better of her. “I'll kill Ritz if she tries to have
me up in some club as tired as I am.”

“What did you say, ma'am?”

“Oh, nothing,” Tracee said. “I was just thinking out loud.
I'm really tired.”

“Well, you don't look tired,” the cabbie said. “I don't want
you to think that I mean any harm, but you look beautiful.”

“Well, thank you, sir.” Tracee was drop-dead beautiful but
never played the part. Most people thought her beauty started
with her thousand-watt smile. Tracee was paper-bag brown
with thick, naturally curly hair and beautiful almond-shaped
eyes. The beauty didn't stop at her face; her body was also
perfect. She could body double for Janet Jackson—the fit
Janet. The body Janet had on her “All for You” concert tour.
Despite her adult gifts, Tracee had a childlike way about her
that everyone loved. However, the most beautiful thing
about Tracee came from the inside. It was rare to be a complete beauty.

Tracee wondered why Chas had sounded so serious.
“There was truly a first time for everything,” she thought as
she drifted off to sleep.

“We're here, ma'am. Ma'am?”

“Oh, okay. Yes. Yes, okay,” Tracee said as she quickly opened
her eyes and struggled to seem alert.

Tracee handed the cab driver her platinum American Express card and tried to figure out exactly where she was. The
only thing across the street was a park and this building that
looked like a hospital.

What was going on?