Tracee was speechless. She loved the way he had spoken those words. He hadn't said them in some deep, intense, “heavy” way, like something out of a corny Hollywood melodrama. No, he looked and sounded like a little kid who had just run downstairs on Christmas morning and was marveling at the presents under the tree. But Randolph wasn't marveling at a present. He was marveling at her.
She wanted to do something crazy, like tell him she loved him. But she was scared. How could she tell him something like that? She hardly knew him, but she felt she had known him forever. It was too confusing. It was too soon. So she said nothing.
“I know we just met. I know I haven't known you long,” Randolph said. “But it doesn't take all day to recognize sunshine. I see you. I see who you are. And I know I can love you. Do you think you can love me?”
Tracee was sitting in front of a man handpicked by God, a man she could not have constructed if she went into a store and bought a kit and built him from scratch.
“I guess what they say is true. When God does something, He goes way beyond what you could possibly imagine,” Tracee whispered under her breath. She didn't intend to say it loud enough to be heard, but she couldn't hold it in.
“What did you say?” Randolph said, smiling. He heard her.
She looked at him and smiled back. He was still holding her hand; he had it cradled in both of his.
Tracee didn't have the words to express what she was feeling, so she leaned across the booth and kissed him. It was a kiss that came from her soul. Randolph saw that soul. Randolph felt that soul. Randolph knew that soul— and he always had, if the truth be known. He just hadn't met it until he met Tracee.
He kissed her back. Perfect. Perfect. Perfect.
27
After seeing her aunt and her sad condition, Ritz was more determined than ever to reclaim her life, or at least life as she saw it. Her aunt's disease proved the old adage: Here today, gone tomorrow!
Ritz wasn't focusing on anything real— like the real possibility of an infection, or the real possibility of a relapse that would make her an invalid, or the very real possibility that a crazy killer would be coming back to finish the job he botched.
Ritz was obsessed with only one thing— getting herself back on the air. Ritz needed “the air” the way everybody else needs oxygen.
She sat up in her hospital bed, which she now hated (first line of business when she got home: a $10,000 water bed!), and dialed Ruff.
“Okay, look, I am coming home in a couple of days,” Ritz said as soon as she heard Ruff's voice— no hello, no small talk, just the assumption that he was there, ready to take her orders. “I expect to be back on the air next week, or you will be hearing from my lawyers. And don't give me any ‘You need to recuperate' bullshit. I have recuperated more than everybody at Sloan-Kettering put together. I'll worry about my health. You just set up your end. I'm ready to come back, and I am coming back with a vengeance! Do you hear me?”
Who the fuck does she think she's talking to? Ruff thought.
But “Yes, I hear you” was what actually came out of Ruff's mouth.
He wasn't afraid to go toe-to-toe with her. He was the program director. He ran the station. He would always win that fight. But he was getting fed up with her. Ever since she had gotten into the spotlight— and he was the one who had put her there, let's not forget that— she had turned into a demanding diva bitch. She was rude, obnoxious, and nasty. That part Ruff could handle with no sweat. Actually, he loved her spunk and take-no-shit attitude. Ritz Harper was a strong woman. You had to admire that about her, whether you liked her or not.
It was her sense of entitlement that irked him, like she was doing him, the station, and the Free World a favor by plopping her big ass in a seat every day, doing her show, and oh, yes, by the way, getting paid millions of dollars a year in the process.
In radio, everyone could be replaced. In media, anyone could be replaced. Just ask Star Jones Reynolds— sitting all high on her throne at The View and then, “Blammo!” she was out of there. Hell, Oprah got fired from an anchor spot early in her career. Somebody actually fired Oprah Winfrey. Howard Stern had been fired when he was bringing in super ratings and ad revenue. Even Wendy Williams had been pushed out of New York at one time while her ratings were red-hot.
It happens to the best of them. You can be good, profitable, with good ratings, and still get the boot. Radio was a business, and there were certain things that “the suits” did not tolerate— not for all of the money in the world. Ritz didn't realize it, but she was dancing dangerously close to the abyss.
In the end, WHOT management decided to give Ritz everything she demanded. A crew was sent over to her home to set up in her basement to broadcast the show. It was soundproofed, and she had the proper mic and headset to make it sound like she was right there in the studio.
Chas's takeover plans were now dashed, so he was back in the fold like he never left, jawing in Ritz's ear about what they should do and how they should do it. But Ritz wasn't following his guidance anymore. He would have to follow hers. She didn't trust Chas to have her back. He wasn't there for her when she was on the brink of death. He had a lame excuse about trying to rescue the show and keep the station from replacing her. Chas told Ritz he was the one who convinced Ruff how much they needed Ritz. But she wasn't buying it completely.
Ritz decided it was her car and she would be driving it from now on. She had the license and she was going to use it. Chas's place now was to sit in the backseat and shut the fuck up.
We'll see how this plays out, he thought. He might have to be a brownnose for a while, but that was okay. He knew about power and Ritz didn't, which is why, in the end, people like her always lost. Chas recalled one of his favorite maxims:
Always be good to the people you meet on the way up, because you may need them on the way down.
Chas thought of that old adage, then he thought of Ritz Harper, and then he laughed, and laughed, and laughed.
Ruff had reluctantly given in to Ritz's demands. The hard part now was convincing his general manager that he had made the right move.
“Ritz is being released from the hospital, Miss Gogel. She is demanding that she do the show from her home.” Ruff made sure to put a little extra emphasis on the word “demanding.”
“Well, what are you going to do?” Abigail said. “I have an idea. Why not shoot her again? Just walk up to her, like those people in The Godfather, and say, ‘Sorry, Ritz. This is business, not personal,' and then boom! Problem solved!”
Ruff bit his tongue. “We can either fire her now and eat the final two years on her deal, which is a lot of freaking money, or we ride it out,” he said.
“We can't pay out that kind of money! Isn't there a ‘morals clause' in her contract? We have to set her up so we can get her out of here and not pay a dime. Get on it. Today. Actually, wait a day or two. I'd like to think of something that would really cook her goose. But it's got to be good. Don't bother making her out to be ‘gay.' Nobody cares about that anymore. I have to watch Maury this week and see what's hot these days.”
Ruff swallowed his tongue again. “I'm working on it, believe me. This Michelle Davis is a star, and she's the kind of star who would have made your grandfather proud. We can build a lot around her.”
Ruff loved Ritz, but he had been a proud radio pro for more than twenty-five years and he hated what radio had become. Back in the day, someone like Lenny Bruce was one thing: He was poking a finger at hypocrites and trying to get people to get real with themselves. His “shock” had a purpose in a 1960s America where people were still drinking from “colored” and “white” water fountains, women were still expected to stay home, barefoot and pregnant, and married couples couldn't be shown sleeping in the same bed on TV.
Ruff felt that today's radio was just too much. Shock to enlighten and educate was one thing, but shock for the sake of shock was just a bunch of banal, boring bullshit. Now there were radio hosts who were getting peop
le to have sex in churches, while others were having strippers on as guests and getting them to touch each other and talk about their vaginal piercings. There was one host who was giving young girls instructions on how to perform oral sex. There was another who had threatened to urinate on another host's little girl. It was sick stuff. Ruff used to be proud to say that he worked in radio. Now he was ashamed.
But he was a businessman. He knew that if he couldn't beat them, he had to join them. Ruff's job was to get ratings, and Ritz brought ratings. Ritz also brought drama, which brought even more ratings. It was a vicious merry-go-round, and Ruff wanted to get off that ride right now.
But just as he was thinking of walking away from the radio game, cashing in his pension, and retiring to Arizona, Ruff met Michelle Davis. More important, Ruff listened to Michelle Davis.
He had listened to her and was spellbound. Yes, Michelle Davis spent time going through all the Page Six and Rush and Malloy stuff, but her message was to rebuke it, not to emulate it. Michelle Davis did not admire celebrities, or politicians, or business tycoons, or rap stars, or anyone else who might be on the cover of this week's People magazine.
Michelle Davis was a bit strange. Michelle Davis admired teachers.
At the end of her show, just before signing off, Michelle had said: “And remember this, folks: Do you really need a friggin' Cadillac Escalade?”
After the broadcast, Ruff was excited again— for the first time in a long time— about his profession and its possibilities.
Listening to Michelle reminded him how he had felt the first time he heard stereo FM after listening to tinny AM on a little Zenith transistor radio for so many years. It was like hearing a new world.
Now he had to figure out how to get rid of Ritz Harper. No one had pulled harder for her to make it back than Ernest Ruffin.
Now he just wanted her to go away. C'est la vie.
You reap what you sow.
28
Ritz sat in the passenger seat for the drive to Jersey. Tracee was handling the Aston Martin like James Bond in Goldfinger.
“I never thought I'd say this, but I think this car is worth every dollar you spent on it,” Tracee said. “This is a fabulous ride. It's practically driving itself. How are you feeling?”
Tracee drove up to the gate at Ritz's Llewellyn community. There was a policeman stationed there in addition to the guard. Tracee had to show identification. She was relieved to know that there was around-the-clock protection. There was still a killer on the loose, and if Detective Pelov was right, he would try again. Tracee hoped he was wrong. She drove around the winding roads inside Llewellyn and pulled into Ritz's circular driveway and down the back way to her three-car garage.
“It's good to be home” was all Ritz said.
Tracee helped Ritz out of the car. Inside, Ritz's home was full of fragrant bouquets, cards, and balloons from fans and coworkers. They were everywhere. Ritz's cleaning lady was there to let the deliveryman in and they arranged the flowers beautifully.
Tracee helped Ritz climb the stairs to the enormous master bedroom.
“All the flowers were delivered from the station,” Tracee said. “They were bombarded with well-wishers. Beautiful, huh?
“I also took the liberty to hire an industrial cleaning service to do the rugs and windows— the things Maya doesn't do on a regular basis. I wanted to make sure that when you came home everything would be perfect and you wouldn't have to worry about a thing.”
Ritz appreciated the flowers. She couldn't wait to get back to her gardening hobby, and she was looking forward to getting her hands back in the soil.
“You are staying here with me, aren't you?” Ritz asked.
“That was the plan, wasn't it? You promised me some fun, and we're going to have some fun! I brought some DVDs from Blockbuster.”
“Oooh! That sounds like so much fun,” Ritz said sarcastically. “Did you get any porn? My favorite porn actor is Dick Johnson. He's so long, he can stick it in his ear. But I just read an article about him. Now he really wants to direct.”
“I can see your sense of humor is still intact,” Tracee said, and laughed. “What? You want to go to the club or something? Girl, you better lay down so you can be one hundred percent better. That's why I'm here. You're going to watch movies and you're going to like it. Look, I got Which Way Is Up?”
“That Richard Pryor movie? You have got to be kidding.”
“And I got you Baby Boy, too!” Tracee said.
“Now you're talking!”
Ritz was tired. She did need to lie down. She wanted to settle in to being home. She also was restless. All she could think about was getting back on the air.
“Where's my phone?” Ritz asked.
“Why do you need a phone?” Tracee asked. “You need to relax. There's plenty of time for talking on the phone.”
“I have to call Chas and Ruff and see what the plan is for the show,” she said. “I have to call Jamie. I told her that she would have to move in when I got back on the air. I have to get this place ready and have everything in place. Maybe I will be back by Monday.”
“Can you just concentrate on taking care of yourself? Think about resting and recuperating.”
“There will be plenty of time for rest when I am dead,” Ritz said. “I've had enough rest. Right now, I need to get back. Look, I almost died. Some fucking bastard tried to kill me and take all of this away from me. I am going back on the air as soon as possible. At the very least, I need to know what's happening with my show. Can you please bring up my radio from the kitchen?”
Ritz had a Bose iPod system in her bedroom, but she rarely listened to the radio when she was home. She didn't need to.
The only show she cared about was hers. Ritz needed to know what was going on during her time spot. She knew a few things. One, her audience wasn't necessarily her audience. Anyone with talent, a gimmick, a plan could come along and snatch them right from her grip, as she did to Dr. Biff. While Ritz believed she was different, special, and that what she had built was so unique that no one could top it, she wasn't a dummy. She knew that by and large, people are fickle and they can be easily swayed.
Here today, gone tomorrow. She had to get back soon.
It was twenty minutes before three, and Ritz didn't want to miss one minute of the show. She had missed enough being in the hospital with the controlling-ass nurses and doctors who kept jabbing her with needles and keeping her from being on top of her game.
Ritz had spoken briefly with Chas before leaving the hospital. He'd said something about a fill-in. That was something Ritz never wanted. A fill-in was a potential replacement. She had hoped they would continue with Best of shows until she was ready to come back, but Chas said that the station management wasn't having it. They wanted new material, not “Golden Oldies.”
“Tray, hurry up with the phone and the radio,” Ritz yelled.
“Yessssss, master,” Tracee yelled back. She knew this was going to be a trying time, responding to Ritz's every need now that she was back up and running. Ritz was lucky that Tracee loved her and was willing to put up with the Diva Act.
Tracee found Ritz's phone and radio.
“Now, don't get used to this service, Missy,” Tracee said. “Don't think that just because you're infirmed, that I won't jack you up if you get out of hand. Where's my belt?”
Ritz looked at her nails. They needed to be done, stat, like they said at the hospital. She also wanted to order that water bed.
“Thanks. That reminds me— Jamie's supposed to be here after the show. Can you get her room ready? I think you've been on vacation for— what, almost a year and a half? Maybe you need to get back to work. In fact, I need some things from the store. Be a sweetie and run to the store for me.”
“Ritz Harper, you're a trip!”
“Can you get me some cherries, and some tea, and some reefer?”
“I don't think they sell reefer at ShopRite,” Tracee said. “But I can run to Whole Foods.
I think they have some hemp. You can chew on that. You still smoke that stuff? Dang, girl!”
“‘Judge not… ' and you know the rest, Miss Holy Roller,” Ritz said.
“Whatever! Now, you said you wanted cherries and what else?”
“Some tea, and if you do go to Whole Foods, get me some of those organic chocolate-covered almonds. Yummy.”
“Can you have chocolate?”
“What am I, a dog, now? Listen, Nurse Betty, don't come in here trying to mess up my fun. Get to work!”
Tracee rolled her eyes again.
“Look, I'm not working because I'm retired, and I retired to do exactly what I wanted to do,” said Tracee, smiling at the thought. “You sound jealous.”
“Oh, no! I can't wait to work again!” Ritz said. “Yeah, I'm going to get Jamie here. Girl, you have to see her boyfriend. He is sexy!”
“Watch that, Ritz,” Tracee said.
“I already did!”
“Uh-uh! No you didn't!” Tracee said in disbelief. “Plus, I thought you had your eye on that electrician.”
“Oh yes, thanks for reminding me of that hunk of a man,” Ritz said. “He's a real challenge, and you know how I like challenges. I have to break him down. But Jamie's man— now, that brother broke me down. I swear, if I think hard enough, I can still feel the soreness, if you know what I mean.”
“Girl, that soreness is probably the result of one of your gunshot wounds. And stop playing. You didn't actually sleep with that girl's boyfriend?”
“No, I fucked him,” Ritz said. “There was no sleeping involved at all.”
“I can't believe you! Does Jamie know?”
“I hope the hell she doesn't!” Ritz said. “That's part of the fun— knowing she doesn't know, and watching him squirm around me. I can't wait to have her invite him over one evening. I'm trying to figure out how I can get him alone for like fifteen minutes. Or a half hour. Or an hour. He knows how to hold it down, Tray! Damn. That man can last! I haven't seen anything like it!”
Is the Bitch Dead, Or What? Page 13
