Drama Is Her Middle Name Read online

  Around five-thirty, the morning team started to roll in. They didn’t need much prep time. They had their show down to a science. Shocky John would say something outrageous, and his two sidekicks would laugh. Shocky was an arrogant bastard with not much time for other people in the business. But on this morning he actually acknowledged Ritz.

  “What’s up, star!” he said. “I hear you’re in the giant-slaying business. I’m jealous, and I can’t wait to talk to you more about that Summers bitch.”

  Every woman was a “bitch” or a “ho” to Shocky. He even referred to the First Lady and Oprah as “those bitches!” Ritz didn’t really like Shocky. But his numbers made him a force to be reckoned with and an ass to be kissed. For now.

  “Oh, Shocky, I can’t wait to go on with you,” she said. “Thanks for having me.”

  “Don’t thank me,” he said. “I didn’t have a choice, not that I minded. That was all Ruff.”

  On Shocky’s show, Ritz dropped more bombs about Delilah Summers. And in one hour she established herself as the next “it” thing in radio. Ruff was waiting for Ritz after the show, and they talked about a raise—nearly thirty thousand dollars more—and a promise of an eventual move to afternoons. But she had to prove herself. How could she top the Delilah Summers exposé?

  Ritz had no idea.

  4

  “Ritgina Dolores Harper!” There was a long pause. Ritz was happy to hear from her aunt, but when she heard her full name, she knew she was in trouble. It was certainly not the usual loving, sweet Auntie M tone Ritz always looked forward to. Ritz’s smile turned into a frown. That, coupled with not getting a minute of sleep, had Ritz on edge. She should have been riding high, having rocked the morning show. She was so excited. She didn’t get home until just before nine. Ritz was looking forward to speaking with her aunt about the excitement over the last ten hours.

  “I . . . we . . . are very disappointed by what we heard last night,” Aunt Madalyn said.

  Ritz didn’t expect her aunt and uncle to approve of her demolition of Delilah Summers. But she thought they would at least understand. Radio was changing. It had changed. And if Ritz was going to take it to the next level, she had to make some moves. Her bomb-drop on Delilah Summers was not just a move, it was a giant step that could actually give her what she wanted, if not at WHOT, then somewhere else.

  “Auntie M, I know that you’re not happy with how I conducted myself last night, but you have to know that this will all turn out well for me,” Ritz said.

  “We did not raise you like that,” said Aunt Madalyn. Ritz could tell that Uncle Cecil was somewhere in the background. While he never got involved on the rare occasions when Ritz and her aunt had a disagreement, she could feel his presence.

  “How could you get on the air and talk about somebody like that? I thought you and that girl were friends. She has eaten at our dinner table, Ritz. Did she do something to you? Ritgina, I don’t think I ever heard you sound so hateful. I know your mother would be crushed and embarrassed to hear you performing this way, God bless her soul.”

  Ritz choked back tears. It was the first time her aunt called out her mother’s memory in such a way. Aunt Madalyn had always used her mother as a source of strength and motivation, and it always worked. When Aunt Madalyn said, “Your mother is watching!” it was always a source of pride for Ritz, whose heart would be filled by the notion that her mother was somewhere looking down on her little girl who was making it despite the odds. But not today.

  Today Aunt Madalyn’s words were breaking Ritz’s heart. Ritz was embarrassed by what she had done. But that embarrassment quickly turned to anger. If she was ever going to take another breath after her aunt’s blow, Ritz decided she would have to swing back hard.

  “You know what? I’m sick of you talking about my mother,” Ritz said. “That was my mother. She raised me to fight for myself. She raised me to say whatever was on mind. What do you want me to be, some poor old church lady just making ends meet for the rest of my life? With all of that ‘God will provide’ bullshit? That’s some bullshit to go along with your slave mentality. You didn’t raise me. My mother raised me, and she didn’t raise a slave!”

  With those words, Ritz slammed down the phone. And as her heart hardened further, she was also slamming closed a chapter in her life. It would be the second time in her life she felt so much pain.

  But it would not be the last.

  5

  JUNE 2001

  Chas James was one of the biggest party promoters in New York. He managed to remain somewhat anonymous by having a string of party-promoter wannabes around as fronts, out in the public seemingly making things happen while Chas played puppetmaster actually making things happen. Chas liked being behind the scenes. He liked being able to stand in the club near the deejay booth and watch the success of his handiwork without being the center of attention, without working the room.

  During the heyday of Studio 54 and the Garage, the promoters were faces that clubgoers recognized. Chas was known by name only. It allowed him to go places without people worrying about him. He was also able to see things few got to see. Chas kept a low profile because it was good for business. In his private life, he was flamboyant and loved attention. But he was too smart to let his own desire for the limelight get in the way of making money.

  Everybody who was anybody wanted to get into Chas’s parties, especially when he had one at Bungalow 8, where you needed a special key to get in. A-list celebrities were always present. Chas would hover around like a black ghost making sure things ran smoothly. His reputation was everything. He was such a perfectionist that he watched over everything at his parties, from the bar to the bathroom.

  Tuesday’s were Chas’s party nights at Bungalow 8. He was able to get a great deal on the rate because it was not a hot party night. He was astute enough to know that in New York, though, there was never an “off ” party night. If you threw the right kind of party, people would show up. The first Tuesday out, Chas netted more than fifteen thousand. He made his real money, however, promoting undercover parties for elite actors, ballplayers, and entertainers. These parties were for gentlemen only and were by invitation only. They were very, very private—so private that those invited could not bring a guest. If your name wasn’t on the list, you didn’t get in—no exceptions.

  Chas started throwing these “undercover” parties after attending one four years earlier at a private loft in downtown Manhattan. He was placed on a list through one of his club connections, and when he arrived at the double metal doors, the bouncer/doorman, who was about six-four and three hundred pounds of muscle, handed him a brown paper bag and told him to take off everything—including his underwear— and place his things in the bag. He also was given a rich, white terry-cloth robe, like the ones at the Plaza or the Four Seasons. When he returned with his bag wearing the robe, he was given a number, which he placed in the pocket of the robe.

  Inside, the loft was divided into dimly lit “stations” set up for various activities. Chas could choose from the “voyeur station,” where he could watch from a chair in the corner of the room while different men participated in various sexual activities. There was the “orgy room,” where Chas could jump in and join the fun—whatever fun he chose. There was the “bottoms-up room,” where men could have their choice of being a “bottom” or a “top.” Bottoms were required to be naked with their bottoms in the air. Tops would have their pick of which bottom they wanted to “tap.” Chas switch hit from time to time, depending on his mood. He chose to sample the “one-on-one” room, designed as a mini club scene where men got to chat and know one another.

  This is where he first met Ivan Richardson. The architect from Miami had never been to a place like this before. He was nervous and very out of his element. His buddy from school, Gerard, told him he was taking him someplace special. He had a guest pass and wanted to show Ivan a good time. Once he stepped into the room, Ivan had second thoughts and then a third thought: “You only
live once. What the hell!”

  After hurriedly checking out each station, Ivan rushed to what he considered the only safe room in the place. He went straight for a table in the corner, leaving his friend in the voyeur room. Ivan hadn’t had a relationship for a year and was not into casual sex. He would get through the night, he told himself, one drink at a time. Ivan ordered a Belvedere neat and sipped it while he watched the men come and go.

  Chas noticed Ivan immediately. He had the same wide-eyed look Chas imagined that he had. Chas may have felt like he had a wide-eyed look, but he was too smooth for that. Chas casually walked over to Ivan’s table and boldly sat down.

  “Can I buy you another drink?” he asked.

  “Um, I’m not quite done with this one,” said Ivan.

  “You’re not from New York, are you?” Chas chuckled.

  “What gave it away?”

  “What didn’t?” Both men burst out laughing.

  Chas and Ivan spent the night talking about everyone in the room, including Ivan’s friend who brought him. Gerard was getting to know one of the men he was watching. The room was getting quite crowded.

  Chas thought Ivan was going to lose it when the star point guard from an NBA team walked into the room.

  “Get the fuck out here!” Ivan said. “I had no idea!”

  “How could you not know that?” Chas said. “Hell, man, there are so many undercover brothers in the NBA, it would shock the hell out of you if I started naming names.”

  The phrase “down low” had not yet officially made its way into popular vernacular—it had not become a nationwide phenomenon yet. But the practice had been around since the Roman days, since the days before Caligula.

  These seemingly straight men who seemingly enjoyed women but who also liked the company of men were not new to Chas. Most of the men he hooked up with fit this category, and he liked it that way. It was yet another way for him to be invisible. His male companions had too much to lose to be known as gay, as did just about every man in the room with Chas and Ivan that night. There were star ballers, investment bankers, entrepreneurs, and even one famous but fading soul singer—all living out their wildest fantasies or just satisfying a physical need. But all doing so undercover on the down low.

  “This evening turned out to be quite interesting after all,” Ivan said, after having downed his third Belvedere.

  “How long are you going to be in town?” Chas asked.

  “Oh, only a couple more days. I have to get back to work. Things are starting to heat up for me there.”

  “Well, maybe we can get together before you leave,” Chas said. “I’ll show you another side to New York. It’ll be fun.”

  They exchanged numbers and Ivan got up to get his things. He was ready to go. Chas stayed around to take some mental notes. He was getting a blueprint for his own club. He made sure to pay attention to what was working—like the intimate bar area where people could get to know one another. And the things that didn’t work so well—like the bottoms-up room. “That’s just too much,” he thought. “They can take that shit to a hotel room. Who can really get loose in an environment like that?”

  A year later, Chas created the Spy Zone. His list would be so exclusive that there wouldn’t be a list. Members only. The way to become a member was a secret. Chas’s club was harder to get into than joining the Masons—the white Masons. It was harder to get into the Spy Zone than for Mo’Nique to squeeze her fat ass into a pair of size-four panties. The membership fee started at ten thousand dollars a month, and Chas planned to increase it each year.

  Chas put a lot of money back into the club, with its secret entrances, tunnels, and exits. He made sure everything, from the open bar with the most expensive selections to the linens, was top of the line. The Spy Zone was open only once a week. The other days, Chas spent at various straight clubs around the city. Those nights were more for his amusement.

  On one such night, Chas met Ritz Harper. She was still doing nights. She wasn’t yet the dynamo she eventually turned into. But for Chas, there was something special about this woman. He was hanging out at his favorite spot—next to the deejay’s booth—as this harried vision came in like a bat out of hell. Ritz always came late.

  “Ritz Harper,” Chas muttered to himself, and smiled. Few people knew what Ritz looked like, but Chas was really into the whole entertainment game. He loved the players and loved watching the plays. Ritz wasn’t a real player yet, but Chas saw the potential.

  Ritz was doing a promotional appearance for the station. She was to come on the stage, give a few shout-outs to the audience, introduce the deejay, and kick it back to the studio. It was Mix-Jam Fridays broadcasting live on WHOT, where they featured three hours of club music. Ritz was late—as usual. But she made up for it with energy.

  “Hey, everybody!!!!!” she shouted, pulling everything together so quickly that Chas was shocked how she went from disheveled to perfect in a split section. “You all look great. Let me hear some noise! Is Brooklyn in the house?!”

  The crowd went wild.

  “Let me hear from my people in Jerrrrrrsaaaay!!!!!!”

  A roar went up.

  “Is there anyone here from the Boogie Down?!!!!!!”

  Whoops and hollers followed.

  “That’s more like it!” Ritz said, feeling her rhythm. “So what are we here for?” And the crowd shouted unintelligible blather.

  Ritz had officially gotten the party started. She capped it off with a few more borough calls and some birthday shout-outs, which always were a hit, and she was ready to send it back to the studio for the music.

  “That’s right! We’re here to PAR-TAY! So let’s get this party started, right?” Ritz said as the deejay started his set. “Let’s hear it for Deejay Smoooooooooooth!” And the crowd went wild again.

  Ritz walked behind the deejay booth and took a deep breath. She didn’t even notice Chas in the corner looking at her.

  “Nice job, Miss Thing,” Chas said.

  “Why, thank you,” Ritz said, smiling.

  “I’m Chas. And I like your style. You have a real future.”

  “This I know,” Ritz shot back, halfway insulted but trying not to look it.

  “This is a tough business,” Chas said, shouting over the music. “I think I can help you.”

  “And what do you do? What are you, a manager or something?”

  “No, I’m even better than that. Let’s talk tomorrow before your show and I’ll tell you what I’m thinking. This is not a good place to conduct business.”

  Business? “Who the hell did he think he was, P. Diddy or something?” Ritz thought. But she liked his boldness. Chas was one of the most confident and sure people Ritz had ever met. “If just a little of that could rub off on me,” Ritz thought. It was worth hearing him out. She took his number and they agreed to meet at the Starbucks on the ground floor of the radio station on Thirty-fourth Street.

  Those first cups of coffee turned into a friendship, or at least a budding partnership. Chas gave Ritz insight into herself that no one else had. He told her that she had to do something about her look.

  “Honey, I know it’s radio, but you have to think bigger than that if you want to be bigger than that,” Chas told her.

  He had Ritz thinking about making some serious changes. At five foot eight, Ritz was above average in height, but everything else about her was average. Her hair was boring. Her body was nothing special. She carried herself like a frump. Chas put her in contact with a style guru of his, Darryl Brown, who connected her with a hairstylist who gave Ritz a whole new look. It was over-the-top—long, honey-blond, and big—and it suited Ritz to a T.

  After the hair, Ritz started thinking about increasing her frontal net worth—a double D increase, to be exact. She got her boob job on a payment plan.

  “Think of it as an investment,” Chas said. “Trust me, it will pay off!”

  Ritz’s transformation, except for the boob job, which took everyone by surprise, was
subtle and gradual. It started the night she and Chas met, and it solidified when Ritz made up her mind that her career would take off—if it killed her.

  Her mother used to tell her about the five P’s that would carry her through life: Proper Planning Prevents Poor Performance.

  “Ritzy, if you plan properly and are prepared, you can handle anything. Most people fail because they fail to plan.”

  It was a cliché Ritz never forgot. When she decided she wanted to be in radio, she didn’t just jump in front of a microphone and start talking. She had internships and learned the game from the inside out.

  Over a six-month period, she started looking better and better. By the time she pushed through with the explosive Delilah Summers exposé, Ritz was “runway ready.” It was something Chas preached that complimented her mother’s sentiments.

  “Girl, you must always, always be runway ready,” Chas would say. “You never ever know when you’ll be called on to be on television or do an interview or just get caught out in the street. You want to always be runway ready.”

  Now Ritz was more than runway ready; she was ready-ready, thanks to Chas. He liked his role as Pygmalion. He loved his deep-chocolate Eliza Doolittle. Perhaps working with Chas over those months gave Ritz the confidence to break out of her shell and do something radical. The physical changes she made had spilled over into her personality.

  6

  Ritz’s move from the night shift was swift. Ruff promised the move would be “soon,” but she never anticipated it would take literally three days after her bomb-drop on Delilah Summers for her to be given the coveted afternoon drive shift. Radio was cruel in that way. Dr. Mark, who had decent ratings and quite a following, was summarily moved to Ritz’s shift. He still had a year left on his contract that the station did not want to eat. In radio, the drive for the best ratings was nasty. WHOT saw Ritz as their next cash cow.

  “This must have been the way that little William Hung felt on American Idol or that Omarosa from the Apprentice,” she thought with amusement. “Fuck that! I actually have talent! I deserve this.”