The phones lit up.
“Hey, Ritz. This is Babydrinka from the Bronx, and let me say one thing, Ritz. I wanna get on that VIP list when Hardcore comes to town. His brain is fire!”
Ritz went to the next caller, a woman.
“I’m not surprised by the down-low parties anymore. But why not let us women hang around so that we can learn a few tricks?”
Ritz laughed at that. “Yeah, let’s open a BJ academy! Let Professor Hardcore share his secrets.”
Aaron played the sound of someone slurping a drink. Then a caller stopped him cold. Aaron mouthed to Chas, “It’s Hardcore. Should I punch him through?”
Chas thought for half a second. “Yeah.”
Aaron hesitated. “Are you going to tell Ritz?”
“Just put him through.” This was going to be interesting. Ritz was oblivious, and that made for great radio moments.
“You’re on the Excursion, speak your mind,” Ritz said.
“Bitch, you’re dead!” Click.
The caller’s rage sent a chill up her spine.
“Dayum, dude, it’s just radio!” Aaron yelped over Al Pacino’s “Say hello to my little friend” clip from the film Scarface. “We play the hits, we don’t deserve a hit.”
Ritz was speechless.
Chas instructed Aaron to play the outro.
Ritz tried to regroup and signed off. “I will be away for a few days getting some Hollywood sun and some more dirt, so take care and I’ll catch you back here on Wednesday!”
The ON AIR sign turned off and Ritz went off.
“How in the fuck did that happen?” she tore into Chas. “Did you want me to have a panic attack on the air?”
Chas was pleased. His poker face was solid. “Shock works both ways; it made for great radio, trust,” said Chas, his delivery believable.
But Ritz was still angry. “Los Angeles will do us some good,” Ritz huffed loud enough for everyone to hear. “I need to reevaluate a few things about you and me.”
Hardcore didn’t care about threatening Ritz on the air. His revenge mission had morphed into blind obsession, and thinking things through was not a part of the agenda.
Hardcore had tried to keep his hands clean by hiring someone else to off Ritz, but now he would handle this himself. She’d given him just the opening he needed: Chas, her right-hand man, was a fan. Hardcore only had bittersweet memories of the sunnier times, when his CDs were selling and he was rolling with his Uni-Global rep, Tracee. She was smart and spiritual, and she was Ritz’s friend—allegedly. That was the part that really irked Hardcore: outing him made Tracee’s career collateral damage and Ritz didn’t give a fuck.
How poetic it would be to gun down New York’s Queen of Radio in his own backyard. Hardcore examined his Jacob, an oversize diamond timepiece from a time when things were good. He intended to pawn it. He’d paid more than $200,000 for it. He hoped he could get at least $50,000 for it now.
How ironic that this was the second Jacob involved in the Ritz Harper murder plot. This Jacob would do its job, which was to fund the hit, unlike hit man Jacob Reese, who’d failed and got killed himself.
Hardcore prepared for his rendezvous with revenge. He finished his blunt, donned a black hoodie and baggy jeans. His next stop was the pawnshop, to trade the Jacob and buy a gun.
Hardcore missed one irony—his onetime manufactured murderous persona was now his reality.
At NYPD headquarters, Captain John Frankie, his trademark stale coconut doughnut in one hand, and a flask of whiskey and orange juice in the other, stopped by Detective Pelov’s desk. In better days, Captain Frankie was a dead ringer for a young, Braveheart–era Mel Gibson. Nowadays, he was a dead ringer for an old Rolling Stones–era Keith Richards. The three divorces and five daughters had really sucked the life out of him. Appearances aside, Captain Frankie was still a solid cop.
“Pelov—that radio chick just got a death threat,” the captain said, unknowingly spewing bits of coconut onto Pelov’s desk. “It would be a shame for her to get popped before your retirement party. Put a car on her.”
Detective Pelov agonized about how best to protect the deejay with the death wish. He was making progress, though, by narrowing his list of potential suspects to the outed celebrity and, possibly, the jilted insider.
10
Tracee’s days at Uni-Global Music Group marked a bad time in her life and she didn’t like discussing it. But with Randolph, she could, as he understood how important it was to leave the title and the money behind if staying meant selling out her soul.
And back then, she was doing exactly that.
The first time Ritz crossed her by outing her client Hardcore, Tracee wrote it off as a blessing in disguise. After his career tanked, Tracee gained clarity, and she didn’t want to be a part of an industry that was so callous and cruel. Worse, Tracee knew Hardcore’s true persona; he was a good guy from a bad situation and was doing things for himself. He didn’t deserve Ritz’s rant and the failure and ridicule that followed.
Ritz never apologized, really, and Tracee didn’t feel she had to. Ritz had ratings to think about, and ratings begot wages.
But for Ritz to bring Hardcore up a second time? And provoke the man to call? Tracee was beside herself. Randolph had questions of his own about his newfound sister.
“Is money and fame that important to her?” Randolph asked. “Does she want to die over gossip?”
“I never understood it,” Tracee said. “Trust me, the old Ritz wouldn’t risk it all for money and status. Sometimes, I think of what she does and who she destroys in order to obtain the trappings of wealth, and it’s frightening.”
“Trappings is the right word. She is trapped. Trapped by the rat race of acquiring things, at any cost. It’s more dangerous because someone tried to take her out before. I just don’t want you to become the killer’s next target.”
Tracee’s eyes grew wide. “Me? You don’t think that someone would do that, do you?”
“Look, Ritz doesn’t deal drugs. She isn’t a gangbanger. All she does is gossip, and someone wanted to kill her over it. That person is demented, and you could definitely be a part of his scheme.”
“But that detective killed the guy who shot Ritz.”
“True. But now there’s another one out to get her. You heard him on the radio, everybody did.”
“I understand what you’re saying and I appreciate you for not saying it outright, Randy.”
He pulled Tracee closer to him; her head rested under his chin. He loved the smell of that lemon-meringue Miss Jessie’s Curly Pudding that she used. She smelled like candy.
“No, Tracee. I will say it outright. We need to distance ourselves from Ritz Harper until this mess boils over.”
“I can’t do that,” Tracee protested. “I love her. She’s like a sister to me.”
Randolph kissed her curly hair. “And I love you and I can’t let my wife-to-be be in danger. I’m not having it.”
Tracee looked up at him. “What did you just say?”
“I’m not having it!”
“No, before that.”
Randolph smiled and crouched beside her on bended knee. He reached in his pocket and produced the famous aqua box with the crisp, white ribbon.
Tracee was shocked into tears. “Randy, Tiffany? Oh my God.”
Tracee opened the box and marveled at the Tiffany Novo, two-carat engagement ring.
Randolph was a nervous wreck. “The salesman says that Tiffany, this ring is, um, pillow-cut.”
Tracee corrected him, “Cushion-cut.”
They laughed. She cried.
“That’s right,” he said, “cushion-cut, and that it was created with fire and spirit. I’m an electrician, so I’m fire, in a way. And you have just brought this wonderful spirit into my life. Tracee, I don’t want to scare you, but I’ve been going to Tiffany’s and searching for your ring ever since the second time I saw you. Ask Emil, the salesman, he can verify…”
Tracee wa
s speechless. Randolph took the ring out of the box and carefully placed it on her finger. It was a perfect fit.
“Tracee Remington, you bring out the best in me. I’ve always been a journeyman, looking for something solid, and you make me feel like home. No other woman could have guided me through this tough trial of losing respect for my dad, and finding a sister like that Ritz Harper.”
They both laughed at that. Tracee still had tears from another place streaming down her face.
“Tracee…you are my fire, you are my spirit, and I am asking you, will you—”
Before Randolph could finish, Tracee jumped on him, sending them both to the floor. She kissed him all over his face, her tears and his tears becoming adhesive, and neither wanted to let go.
“Yes!” she said, sealing the deal. “I will be your wife. I will be your partner. I will be your helpmate. I will have your beautiful children.”
Randolph was relieved. “And I will be in your corner. I will be your loving husband. I will be the best father, and the best friend to you…Mrs. Tracee Remington Jordan. I promise.”
11
As an out-of-the-closet (but not flamboyant) gay man in the entertainment industry, and as the producer of the number one drive-time show in New York, Chas James’s social calendar was something to behold.
There were always industry meet and greets, social mixers, club openings, launches, pre-and postparties, and Chas was on the VIP list for everything, no thanks to Ritz Harper, by the way.
Chas knew how to play the game. He understood that the ass you kick on the way up would be the ass you kiss on the way down. So he immediately smoothed things over with Ritz’s furious guests. And Chas had a system. He’d work the celebrity’s handler and say, “You know, Ritz just told the world that your client had herpes, but check the album sales tomorrow. Your client will thank her!” The handler and the dissed celebrity couldn’t doubt that; any publicity was good publicity if it led to sales.
If that approach didn’t work, Chas would give a wink to the dissed celebrity and promise, “As soon as you find some good dirt on that cow, I’ll let you flip the script!”
That was a promise he could never keep, but it sure kept hope alive.
Chas was looking forward to this quick jaunt to L.A. Scores of beautiful gay men were in Los Angeles, but Chas only had eyes for one—Rutger Blake. Suddenly, someone just as enticing had eyes for Chas.
Aaron handed him the phone. “Hey, some dude says it’s urgent.”
Chas took the phone. “This is Chas.”
“Look, man, I don’t appreciate that shit.” The meaty voice on the other end of the phone sent a chill down Chas’s spine. Chas knew it was Hardcore. Ritz was right, Chas did have a thing for him.
“It’s just showbiz, man,” Chas said. “It’s just radio.”
“I feel like I need some reparations though, from you.”
Chas’s ears tweaked. “From me? How so?”
“You know what she’s saying about me, and you don’t even defend me. What’s up with that?”
Chas laughed. Hardcore didn’t sound too pissed now.
“I will definitely correct her next time,” Chas said.
“You coming to my town, though? For real?”
The possibility of a hookup was so erotic that even the phone felt hot to Chas.
“Look, take this number and call me on my cell,” Chas said. “I’ll be leaving here in about five minutes. Let’s talk about that.”
Chas handed Aaron the phone and slipped out of the studio without telling the crew good-night. He was barely out of the studio when his cell vibrated. The area code was 310 and he knew what time it was.
“This is Chas.”
“It’s Hardcore. Look, man, I don’t give a fuck about her, that shit’s old. What I wanna do is, you know, grab a bite to eat or something when you get on the West Coast.”
Hot damn! Chas’s dick was dancing in his pants.
“How can I trust you won’t beat me up?” Chas teased.
“I’m a lover, not a fighter,” Hardcore spat back. “I’m just trying to settle a few curiosities that I have about you…if you can keep your mouth shut.”
“I can,” Chas said, trying to hold back his excitement, “for certain situations.”
“Listen, I don’t wanna keep bringing it up, but I want to see you, not an entourage. Just you. You understand what I’m getting at? No high-profile shit.”
“Sounds like a plan.” Chas blushed.
“We’re on the same page. Trust.”
12
Creepin’ in Cali
Hardcore played roles well. In his former life, he was a studio gangsta. On this occasion he’d become a man-seducer. The role was tricky because Hardcore reasoned that “fags” were like bitches, except even more conniving. Hardcore had to watch his language. He had to pretend to be gay, although he wasn’t gay, technically. Ramming some twink in a club that one time didn’t make him gay. The twink wore lip gloss and fuchsia and was giving him that look. It was a club where secrets were made and kept, so why not? By this time, Hardcore had so much pussy on standby that trying something new was imminent.
But that was a long time ago. That was when he was trying to get into the game and his artist-and-repertoire handler told him that if he wanted his name to be considered for the more lucrative concerts, he should make the rounds at the DL industry parties. That’s what Hardcore did, and from what he saw, that’s what a lot of big names did, it was part of the hustle that would lead to a career.
Hooking up with Chas repulsed him. But he had to do it; he had to get to Ritz. And Chas seemed to be willing to lead him right to her.
In character, Hardcore placed the obligatory woo phone calls to Chas. He was especially careful to build Chas up as he tore Ritz down.
“I’m just saying, Chas, you have the talent,” Hardcore said. “She’s a talking head…with an awful weave!”
Chas soaked up every word and was thirsty for more.
“Chas, I’m sorry. I know you two are close. I guess I’m jealous, that’s not gay, is it? Fuck it, then. I’ll be gay for you. I’m jealous that she sees you so often and I gotta wait until you come through.”
Chas was as giddy as a schoolgirl. And Hardcore couldn’t believe how easy it was.
“I’d rather be with you, too. Trust,” Hardcore said. “So where do you want to go when you get here? What can I treat you to? You know, that’s discreet.”
“How discreet do we need to be?” Chas asked.
“Ritz keeps putting the gaydar on me, and, Chas, if this was a booty call or something, I swear, I wouldn’t care.” Hardcore was putting it on thick. “But I dig you. I listen to the show because I know you’re there working it behind the scenes, and I dig you. You know what? I wanted to ask you out that time I was on the show, but so much happened after Ritz blasted me. I couldn’t dare take you out back and…”
“And what?” Chas teased. “Don’t be shy.”
“Cali niggas ain’t shy, baby boy, not by a long shot. But I can show you better than I can tell you. So when are you getting here? When do we get some face time?”
“Soon. I’ll text you when we leave New York.”
13
BEVERLY HILLS, CALIFORNIA
L’ERMITAGE HOTEL
THE PAVILION RESTAURANT (TERRACE)
The secluded eatery was serene and beautiful. Hardcore would have allowed himself to soak in the lush, floral Japanese garden and the warmth of the fireplace—if only the business at hand wasn’t so ugly. Hardcore set the mood early.
“This is some weird shit, huh?” He smiled, flashing his flawless smile.
That smile was what hooked Chas the first time he saw him. Hardcore had great teeth. No jewelry or gang signs carved into them, which had become a trend in the industry. Hardcore’s grill was just perfect, just like his large hands, and his gravel-deep voice, and his flawless butter-cream skin, with a tiny scar over his eyebrow.
Hardcore retrieved
a tube of cherry Chap Stick and moisturized his lips. Chas was loving it. The servers set a bountiful array of colorful food on their table—bright orange sherry-vinegar and molasses-glazed carrots, spring-green broccolini and pecans, and a juicy, blackened rib roast with porcini stuffing.
“Enjoy,” their lead server said.
“I will,” Chas responded, eyeing Hardcore the entire time.
Hardcore managed a blush. “So, how long are you in town? What do you have going on?”
Chas told the plan without thinking twice. “We’re meeting with the Big Four. Ritz wants to expand into television.”
A pang of disgust struck Hardcore just as he swallowed his carrots. “What about you?” he recovered. “You’re the one that needs to expand. No one wants to see her, you’re the sunshine.”
Chas smiled broadly. He could not believe this hunk was a gentleman. He loved such surprises. And the one-night-stand codespeak began.
Chas: “What do you wanna get into after this?” Translation: Let’s fuck!
Hardcore: “I’m open to whatever.” Translation: Perhaps.
Chas: “We should hang out at the Writer’s Bar. There are a few guys coming over to do spoken word, that’s what the concierge told me. Last night, a few celebs stopped by.” Translation: Let’s digest our food before we fuck!
Hardcore: “On second thought, how about I allow you to unwind. You just flew in. And I have a few things I need to take care of back at my spot. We can hook up sometime tomorrow, after you’re done with your business. You know, business is why you’re here, right?” Translation: I do not want any witnesses.
Ritz Harper Goes to Hollywood! Page 5
