“Have a seat, ma’am.”
Ritz couldn’t move. The officer placed a firm hand on Ritz’s shoulder and forced her to sit.
“Ms. Harper, we are investigating the suicide of Christopher Hardcore Harris—”
“What?! Oh my God! Is it my fault?”
“NYPD homicide detective Pelov arranged for LAPD officers to monitor you while you were at this hotel. His concern was that your traveling partner, Mr. Chas James, and your stalker, Mr. Harris, might do you harm. Our officers noticed Christopher Hardcore Harris arrive at the hotel, and we put someone outside your door. We observed Harris enter Mr. James’s suite—”
“He broke into Chas’s suite?”
“No, ma’am. Mr. James invited him inside. A sexual assault took place, and when confronted by our officers, Mr. Harris produced a weapon and committed suicide.”
“Stop.” Ritz was having a hard time catching her breath. “Chas was with the man that threatened to kill me?”
“Ma’am, hotel staff verified that the two had dinner on the terrace the night before.”
Tears of anger and betrayal rushed down Ritz’s face. The officer left and returned with a small spa towel. She handed it to Ritz.
“Ms. Harper, Detective Pelov wants to debrief you when you return to New York. Here’s my card. We are confident that the immediate danger is over. However, our mayor sends the message that he is a fan of yours, and that L.A.’s finest will be watching over you while you’re here. It will be from afar, ma’am. We know you may want to keep a low profile.”
Ritz swallowed hard. “Where is he now?”
“Chas James is at the Beverly Hills short-term hospital. We can arrange for someone to take you there—”
“No, thank you. He fucked with a snake, and he became one. If I never see Chas James again in my lifetime, it would be too soon.”
The officer sat beside her. “You know, ma’am, I see ugliness all the time. I see the worst of what people can do to one another. And I know that all of this is hard. But there is another day ahead of you. And soon it will be Monday, the best day of the week!”
Ritz shook her head. “Monday is the best day? Well, okay.”
“Yeah, I always tell my colleagues to celebrate Mondays because there are so many people who don’t make it past the weekend,” Detective Maddow said. “Monday is the first day of the best of your life.”
24
It’s Getting WHOT in Here
MONDAY, 8:59 A.M.
NEW YORK CITY
WHOT STUDIOS
Michelle Davis adjusted her headset and cleared her throat, took a sip of water and prepared to sign off. She was filling in this day on Veronica Villagomez’s V Spot morning-drive show. She was going to do a double shift today as she kicked off the week in the Queen’s chair—filling in for Ritz Harper.
“This is Michelle Davis, and I thank you for allowing us to take you away on the V Spot. Remember, if you miss a minute, you miss a lot.” The outro music, Beyoncé’s “Irreplaceable,” sent her off the air.
“Wait, Michelle, we have some breaking news!” Tony, the engineer, said, commanding the mic (and turning Michelle’s mic off).
“Everybody, this is Ritz Harper, of the Ritz Harper Excursion, and we have breaking news!” The Los Angeles Police Department had managed to keep the rape and suicide out of the press long enough for Ritz to have the scoop. It wasn’t done purposely. They couldn’t release the information until Hardcore’s next of kin were notified. But it worked out perfectly for Ritz, who couldn’t wait to pounce.
“Rapper Hardcore was just busted for the attempted rape of our producer, Chas James, in his Beverly Hills suite! Chas is in the ICU, but Hardcore blew his head off. Again, Hardcore committed suicide after being caught in the act by the LAPD, raping our producer, Chas James!”
Tony flicked Michelle’s mic on. Michelle was stunned. “Ritz, is Chas hurt?”
“Chas will pull through just fine, honey,” Ritz said. “His phatty buddies know that Chas is a topper, so his, um, ass will be in pain for a while.”
Ruff rushed into the studio and said, “Hang up on that tacky bitch, now, or you’re all fired!” It was live and over the air.
“What did he say—,” Ritz managed, before Tony dropped her call.
Nanoseconds later the in-house phone rang. It was the Three Suits notifying Ruff that there would be a companywide meeting on Tuesday.
25
The Gift
MONDAY, 10:45 A.M.
LOS ANGELES
BEVERLY HILLS MEDICAL CENTER
Chas had gone from being almost famous to instantly famous in a few hours. His rape and Hardcore’s suicide was on every television station and on the radio. Chas had to admit, the thug rapper/rapist was too juicy of a story to pass up. Ritz fed the wire every morsel of the crime. She was right smack in the middle of it all.
But she hadn’t called him. The nurses were angry on Chas’s behalf. One male nurse, Conner, treated Chas well and tried his best not to humiliate him during the rape-kit process.
Several hours later, Conner returned and counseled, “You have every right to sue her, for breach of privacy. Rape victims have privacy laws in California. Don’t worry, attorney Gloria Allred is going to get in her ass!”
Just the word ass made Chas cringe. “That’s the fabulous Queen of Radio,” Chas lamented. “Ratings and raises. That’s all she cares about.”
Conner took the remote out of Chas’s hand. “That knot on your forehead is coming down nicely. And I bet your face looks better than the other guy’s.”
Chas would smile at the attempted comic relief but he was in too much pain. The doctor, a top-heavy Middle Eastern woman with a long, neat braid and sporty glasses, entered the room and washed her hands. She spoke with a thick accent.
“Okaaayyy. Mr. James, I am Dr. Patel, a resident here. And I want to go over the results of your rape kit with you.”
“I don’t want to hear it. I know, I’ve been torn here and stretched there. I can feel it.”
She examined his eyes with her miniflashlight. She felt his lymph nodes. Chas jerked in pain. He could still feel Hardcore’s fist crash-landing on the back of his head.
“I’m sorry, just checking.” Dr. Patel scribbled in the chart. “We’ll get some more Percodan in your drip, you’ll feel better, okay? Now, Mr. James, what protease inhibitors are you taking?”
“What?”
“Are you on any kind of combo routine?”
“No. I get high occasionally, and I drink.”
“Are you not taking drug therapy of any kind?”
Chas was insulted. What happened to the post-race society? “No. We’re not all crackheads!” he said sternly to the doctor.
Dr. Patel placed the chart on the bed and sighed. “Oh, my goodness, you don’t know, do you? Mr. James, you are HIV-positive.”
“H-I-V?!” Chas repeated aloud.
The doctor might as well have said D-I-E.
Chas’s mind zipped to the sexcapades—there had been so many of them lately—when passion took control of his better judgment. The intoxicating mix of greed and dick lust, pursuit and conquest, had led to this—a hospital bed that might as well have been placed inside a hospice.
“I fucked up,” Chas said to himself, then to the doctor.
“I fucked up,” Chas said to the God that he didn’t pray to so often. “Damn!”
Dr. Patel listened patiently as Chas went through the motions. Her bedside manner wasn’t what it should have been. The detachment was the last thing Chas needed. He needed comfort. He needed someone to put a hand on his shoulder and tell him it was going to be all right. But she sat there with a blank stare on her face as he went through about five different emotions: shock, anger, sadness, confusion, and finally despair.
Dr. Patel did have one strength—the ability to connect with the eccentric. That skill served her well in Beverly Hills.
“You don’t have to die, Mr. James. This is an ailment, a
condition that can be controlled to some extent. There are many people living long, healthy lives with HIV.”
“I’ve seen too many people go. The gift can’t be trusted. One person is gone in a matter of weeks, while somebody else can hang on, still kicking it like Magic Johnson. How do I know which gift I’ve got? How do I know how long I’ve had it?”
Dr. Patel tried to bond with him. “Why do you call it a gift, Chas?”
“Some gay men think that AIDS is gonna kill ’em anyway, so they want to fuck around with somebody who already has it. The gift grants sexual freedom.”
Dr. Patel was visibly disturbed. “Freedom? How so?”
“If you know you’re positive, you don’t fear getting it anymore. No more precautions; you can just do your thang. But I didn’t ask for the gift.”
Chas turned his head away from Dr. Patel. A tear raced out of the corner of his eye and disappeared into the pillow.
“How do I tell the men I’ve been with…‘Oh, I’m sorry, I may have given the gift to you.’ Or, how do I face who could have given it to me?”
“Mr. James, we can help contact whoever you need to contact. Do you have any idea who could have exposed you to the virus?”
“How the fuck do I know?!” he yelled, striking the bed with his fists, embarrassed that he had been so careless over the years that it could literally be one of a dozen men. “What the fuck! I don’t hurt anybody. And look at what happened to me. Who would do this to me?!”
Chas’s rant echoed through the halls. Dr. Patel was silent, not knowing what to say, not wanting to trigger any more outbursts.
“You know, I knew I’d go out young,” he said. “But not like this. This shit is humiliating. I’m embarrassed. I can’t go to the clubs, or hook up, none of that. I will be an outcast.”
Outcast was the buzzword that Dr. Patel was waiting for—she heard it often among her Beverly Hills patients and knew how to manipulate the sentiment to her advantage.
“Oh no, Mr. James. You’re not an outcast. You can be in the forefront. Magic Johnson is a spokesman. You can go around and speak to people, too. You’re a young man, a handsome man with many friends. I suppose that you can take this gift—as you call it—and turn it into something positive. You can make a difference. There are organizations that I know that are in dire need of a voice to speak to the many…you would be perfect.”
“Shiiiiittttt!” Chas was beyond angry, and dismissive. “Someone hooked me up and now I’m supposed to put my name out there as the AIDS poster child? I’m supposed to give up my life to look out for everybody else? I don’t think so!” The undercurrent of evil was surfacing. “Whoever did this to me didn’t look out for me. Didn’t give me a heads-up. Nobody told me shit!”
Dr. Patel scribbled in Chas’s file, then shoved it under her arm. She left his side to wash her hands—and to get away from him. His venomous attitude was seeping out from every pore of his body like a funky mist, threatening to envelop anything in its path.
“I have one thing to say, Mr. James,” Dr. Patel said. “The best option, always, is to take care of yourself and live a meaningful life. Bitterness worsens the suffering.”
“Nobody told me shit,” said Chas, now almost in a trance of his own anger. “So I ain’t gonna tell nobody shit, either.”
Dr. Patel’s eyes grew wide. “I must inform you that intentionally infecting someone with HIV is a crime in the state of California, Mr. James. You will go to jail.”
“I know,” Chas said with a menacing grin. “But I live and fuck in New York!”
26
Fame
Ritz Harper and her best friend, Tracee Remington, were polar opposites. Tracee had that chameleon sex appeal, like Janet Jackson. One minute Tracee was grown and sexy à la Janet in her famous “Pleasure Principle” video; but the next minute she was the ponytail-wearing, dimpled-cutie-pie Janet, à la Penny from Good Times. Either way, the brown-skinned natural beauty with the thousand-watt smile, almond eyes, and thick, curly hair always had a halo.
The two friends also had opposing career ambitions. Ritz wanted to conquer more of the entertainment world, whereas Tracee, the youngest, most successful black music rep at Uni-Global, accepted a lucrative early-retirement package and moved to Winter Garden, Florida, to find herself.
Little did Ritz know, Tracee had also been finding herself in the throes of a long-distance relationship with Randolph Jordan, Ritz’s half brother. Tracee and Randolph were spending the weekends together at his place in Jersey.
Tracee was en route to the grocery store when Ritz called her cell.
“Oh my goodness! Is Chas all right?” Tracee said. “It’s all over the news out here. You’re all over the news! I don’t agree with you telling the world he was raped.”
“The story isn’t what you think it is,” Ritz said.
“I am disgusted by this. And you know I usually stay out of your way when you gossip. But, no, no, no! I would not be your friend if I didn’t tell you that you crossed the line this time. This isn’t entertainment, Ritz, this is a man’s life—a man who is close to you.”
“Tray, there’s a lot going on—”
“Let me tell you what’s going on right now. Michelle Davis is on your show, the Ritz Harper Excursion, and she’s asking your listeners if you were foul and out of line by disrespecting Chas. Your audience is siding with her. Chas is the victim here and you crossed the line.”
“You think I did this for no reason? Tray, you know me better than that.”
“I don’t know what I know about you when ratings are involved.”
Silence.
“I know your next move,” Tracee said. “You’re going to hang up the phone and cut me off because I don’t agree with you. Ritzy, anyone who agrees with you a hundred percent of the time is not looking out for your best interest. They are sponges. I love you. I care about you, and even if you hate me, I will be that one person who won’t leave you. Now, hang up on me if you want to. I’ll still answer the phone when you’re mature enough to call me back.”
Silence.
“I can hear you breathing,” Tracee said. “And I’m not hanging up.”
Ritz was fighting between anger and pain. She wanted Tracee to understand. She needed Tracee to understand.
“When I was shot, Chas wrote the press release and gave interviews,” Ritz finally broke the silence. “When I discovered I was pregnant, Chas developed a promotion around ‘Who’s Her Baby’s Daddy?’ When I lost my baby, Chas wrote the press release and suggested that I make appearances and start a foundation for stars who lost their children. It was never about what was best for me! He just used my life events to generate buzz.”
“He was your producer. He wasn’t obligated to be your friend. This is the industry you’re in.”
“I know this. I expected him to use my life events to promote himself. But when he mixed it up with Hardcore, he was orchestrating my biggest life event ever—my death.”
Tracee sighed and took a deep breath. “I’m not surprised.”
“Why aren’t you surprised?” Ritz was surprised by Tracee’s response.
“I can’t put my finger on it, Ritz. It’s something that I saw back when you were in the coma. I was with your Auntie M., Cecil, and Chas. We were trying to see you when that homicide detective approached us. There was a moment when he explained that he was assigned to the case because originally you flatlined….”
“Go on.”
“I don’t want to assail his character, but we all expressed relief when we found out that you came back. And Chas didn’t seem relieved at all. It was as if he was in shock that you made it. And then he got on his cell phone and walked into the hallway. He was yelling the entire time. Finally the nurse told him to get off the phone because he was in a hospital.”
There was silence.
“So I told that detective that Chas’s response made me leery. I felt bad about reporting that, but I had to. Ritzy, are you there? Ritzy?”
> “I-I-I just can’t understand it. Why didn’t you tell me?!”
“I wasn’t sure. It was just a feeling. And he seemed to be doing right by you and your career. I told myself I would watch him, and if I saw anything else out of the ordinary, I would confront him myself.”
“He brought me all the way out here to tear me down.” Ritz was now retracing everything, going over every movement and detail of Chas’s actions in her head. “But if he didn’t want me alive, well, then it all makes sense.”
“You say Chas brought you there? Well, Michelle Davis has been saying on the radio that you forced Chas to come with you to L.A. Ruff mentioned on the air that it was you that requested the time off and refused to let Chas stay behind to work with Michelle.”
“Nobody believes that bullshit, do they?”
“Everybody believes it. It looks pretty bad, Ritz. Michelle said Hardcore was stalking you. He kidnapped and tortured Chas, but Chas wouldn’t tell him where you were. Chas was looking out for you, but you turned around and gossiped about his ordeal. She has you looking pretty bad.”
“Ruff gave an interview to Michelle?”
“Yes, he did. And he said that Chas’s friends are circulating petitions to change the name of your show from the Ritz Harper Excursion to just the Excursion.”
“Tray, I promise you, that is not what happened at all.” Ritz was in disbelief. “I am the victim here. They are using my show, and my audience, to launch a hate campaign against me. I don’t know how to fight back because they’re all against me.”
For the first time in a long time, Ritz Harper had a real conversation with her best friend; and she told Tracee the truth about everything.
“I never thought Chas would go there. But, why not? Street producers who are looking to move some units will stage a crime or plant some drugs on their low-level talent. When that talent’s arrest is splashed across the media, the label gets a buzz. Imagine how a producer’s stock would rise if his star talent was gunned down right in the midst of a ratings war!”
Ritz Harper Goes to Hollywood! Page 11
