Drama Is Her Middle Name (5 page)

“The
Post
always did have a way with words,” Ritz thought.
“And how are they going to call it their exclusive? That shit
was
my
exclusive!”

Then she turned to the story and skipped through the
blah, blah, blah to get to her quote.

“Yep, they spelled my name right!” She smiled with satisfaction.

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.