Queen of Miami

by M?ta Smith

  “Trouble is my middle name,” I tell him. “Sorry to interrupt your meeting, George, really. I just wanted you to know that I was here and that I need to talk to you. Your gatekeeper wasn’t going to give you the message and we both know it. Ain’t that right, hall monitor?” I look at the secretary and she slinks out of the office.

  “No problem, Bobbi,” he says. “We were just about to go grab a bite to eat. Have you met Eric Milon?” he asks me.

  “No, I haven’t, but I know who you are.” I extend my hand and shake Mr. Milon’s. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Milon,” I say.

  “Please, call me Eric,” he tells me. I can’t believe my luck. Eric’s presence is the best thing that I could have hoped for. Eric is one-third of the Milon Brothers, the owners of South Beach’s trifecta of premium nightclubs: Mansion, Prive, and the Opium Garden. There will be no excuses of “I need to ask my boss” from George. I’ll get either a yes or a no today.

  I go on to tell them the purpose of my ambush. I whip out the proposal I’ve crafted that tracks the projected earnings and presents a strong case for them to take this project on, along with my ever-expanding press kit. Hey, I never said I was stupid and didn’t know how to do the whole corporate thing; I just don’t want to do it for a living. But I know that in order to win over real businessmen, which George and Eric are, I’ve got to come at them hard and on their level, if not a level higher than theirs. They seem a little hesitant, but having been in sales, I know that every no they give me is just another opportunity for me to convince them to say yes.

  It’s a hard sell. I hear a lot of excuses, but after a lot of negotiating we come to an agreement. My dad always told me that compromise is when both sides of a negotiation are equally dissatisfied. I don’t get the percentage I wanted of the bar, but I do get a percentage, which was the biggest roadblock. We also come to the agreement that the event will be held at Mansion rather than Opium Garden, which is a little disappointing to me because Opium is the prettier club. But I think to myself that once I show and prove that I can be a bomb-ass promoter as well as a bomb-ass DJ, I can write my own ticket in the future.

  I turn Mansion out consistently. Every week my set gets better and better. And every week I fly in another banging female DJ to spin with me. The crowds are ridiculous, and the money is really nice, plus my name is hotter than ever. Saturday nights at Mansion are the place to be if you want to hear the best in hip-hop, R&B, reggae, reggaeton, and such.

  Memorial Day weekend I partner with Missy Elliot as my celebrity guest host, and I’ve got Beverly Bond and DJ Shortee coming in. It’s a very important night and I know I’m going to make a ton of money. I make phone calls on my way to the club, just to make sure that everything is running smoothly. I talk to both of the DJ’s managers; both Beverly and Shortee have made it into town and settled into their hotel rooms, and they’ll be sure to leave early in order to make it to the venue on time. I also chat with the VIP hostess, who assures me that she’s going to milk the patrons for all they’re worth and charge a grip for expedited entry.

  I light up and take a puff of a super fat joint of potent weed called “Northern Lights” from Alaska. It’s the good shit, so I only need a couple of tokes to feel a nice buzz, but it makes my truck stink to high heaven. The night air is charged with electricity; I can sense there’s going to be adventure, as corny as that sounds, because I’ve always been a little clairvoyant. I can usually sense when something important is going to happen. I think it’s a part of the reason why I’m so confident. Mother says that many of the Toussaint women had “the blessing and the curse of sight” as she refers to it. Mother always claims to know exactly what I’m up to because of it, but she’s usually just trying to manipulate me into confessing something. But sometimes she’s dead on the money, and when she is, it’s creepy. I just wish that I had more control of whatever it is because maybe I’d be able to pick some winning lottery numbers! Unfortunately, the feelings and visions that I get for myself aren’t always as clear as I’d like; things almost always have to play themselves out a bit before I can connect the dots. Although I’ve seen things as clear as a bell for other people, I can’t see shit for myself. I guess that’s why it’s a blessing and a curse.

  When I hit the Washington Avenue strip, it’s packed and traffic is slowed down to a snail’s pace. I see that my street team—a group of model-pretty chicks wearing matching T-shirts and booty shorts and handing out flyers—is on their job. They wave at me as I pass them on the street and crawl through the maze of cars.

  I extinguish my joint and spray some odor-neutralizing air freshener as I pull up in front of Mansion. The line for the valet is a little long but I’m able to boguard my way to the front without much of a problem. Then I see him, and my world stops. It’s only for a split second, but there’s a definite glitch in the matrix. Standing next to the weekend doorman, Rico, is a burly bouncer who immediately captures my attention. I know that this man can’t possibly be my Kaos. But the second I laid eyes on him, I could feel Kaos. His presence is so strong around me that it sends a chill through my body as if I’d been touched by a hand from the grave. I can’t tell exactly what it is about this man that reminds me so much of Kaos—they don’t look anything alike—but there is an inexplicable connection.

  I eye the roach of the joint that I’d been smoking in the ashtray and close it shut. I shake my head and tell myself that it’s just my mind playing tricks on me because of the weed. This is what I tell myself, but I know that there’s more to it than that; I can feel it in my bones. I have a serious case of cottonmouth as I watch the two of them approach my truck.

  “What’s up, Ms. Bobbi,” Rico says to me as I step out of the Range Rover.

  “Hey, Rico. How is it tonight?” I ask him, giving him a Hollywood hug and a kiss on each cheek. I can’t take my eyes off the bouncer. He’s eyeing me as well, but his face is stone and he says nothing.

  “Packed!” he says. “You ready to do your thing?”

  “Aren’t I always?” I ask him, grinning. I pop the trunk and the bouncer steps around to the back and pulls out the large aluminum case that holds my equipment.

  “Is this all she has?” the bouncer asks Rico, even though I’m standing right there. I remove my house keys from my key chain before I hand it over to the valet.

  “Yeah, that’s it,” I tell the bouncer. “I use my laptop to spin.” I extend my hand, hoping that my palms aren’t all gross and sweaty, and introduce myself. “I’m Ms. Bobbi, the DJ. Damn you’re fine,” I say with a coquettish smile. I wouldn’t mind getting to know him better.

  “Yeah, I know. I’m Q,” he says, devoid of any emotion, his dark brown eyes meeting mine directly while shaking my hand. His hands are soft and his nails are neatly groomed, but his grip is firm and powerful. Confidence oozes from every pore in his body.

  “Do you know that you’re fine or do you know that I’m the DJ?” I quip flirtatiously.

  “Both,” he says. He closes the trunk and walks quickly toward the club’s entrance. I watch the muscles in his ass and thighs flex and dance beneath the fabric of his pants as he walks away. I can’t believe this dude just played me like that, but I can’t help but think that even though his attitude sucks, he’s got a magnificent ass. I’ve always been a sucker for a nice, big, juicy ass and chiseled thighs. But despite his good looks and his vague similarity to Kaos, I immediately dislike Q. Not only did he practically ignore me, but I get the distinct feeling that he’s rushing me from the way he’s standing impatiently and obviously irritated at the door. Someone must have told him wrong because he obviously doesn’t realize that no one rushes Ms. Bobbi. I hate when other people say this, but doesn’t he know who I am?

  I forget about Q and focus on myself. I walk slowly through the velvet ropes and down the red carpet that leads to the club. That red carpet stroll is just as important to me as it is to a Hollywood starlet on her way to the Oscars, and what I’m wearing, or not wearing, is just
as important to me as it is to Charlize Theron or Nicole Kidman or Halle Berry. After all, part of my notoriety now is due to the fact that I spin in outfits outrageous enough to make a stripper blush. I’m such an exhibitionist that I won’t even begin to deny it; I get off on people staring at me and desiring me. Hell, I provoke it on every possible occasion.

  I can hear people whispering about me as I chat briefly with the door hostess and a couple of the doormen who are deciding which hopefuls have what it takes to get in quickly and which ones have to wait who knows how long in line and pay a hefty admission price. It’s not that I have anything important to say. I just want to make sure that everyone sees who’s about to turn the club out. I pivot as if I’m at the end of a runway in Bryant Park during New York Fashion Week. I’m going to make sure that this is a night to remember.

  I’ve got on a “bra” made of pink, green, and clear Swarovski crystals that are glued in an abstract pattern across my breasts with liquid latex. My pink leather shorts barely cover my ass, but they look so hot with my matching pink stiletto boots that come up to my mid-thigh. My sandy colored hair, which is somewhere between curly and kinky, is teased to the outer limits and held fast on both sides with pink and green rhinestone clips in a funky faux hawk. My eyes are made up dramatically with glittery eye shadow, tiny pink rhinestones, and ultraglam false eyelashes made of mink. It’s over the top, but that’s the point. I decide that the grueling daily workouts I’ve endured with my sadistic personal trainer, Palmero, were well worth the pain as the men look at me with lust and the women stare at me with envy.

  When I get good and ready I meet Q at the door. He holds it open for me and escorts me inside and upstairs to the DJ booth. Then he walks away without saying a word. How rude, I think. I know bouncers aren’t necessarily supposed to be friendly to the clientele, but he could at least be cordial.

  “Bye, Q. It was nice meeting you too,” I yell sarcastically at his back. I don’t think he hears me over the music, but he turns around and flashes me a peace sign and a wink before disappearing down the stairs and into the crowd. I feel my heart flutter a little bit because he’s so damn sexy, but I ignore the feeling. Q hasn’t given me my props, and it is really too bad for him because if he had, he could have had some pussy.

  I give my opening act, DJ Money T, a wave and he gives me a nod. I know that’s as good as I’m going to get from him, but I don’t really care. Money T isn’t even on my level; he’s a hater. The only reason he has this gig is because he’s a tenacious little fucker and at least to my face he shows me respect. He’s cute too, and lots of women like him. He has a strong fan base and I’m not stupid enough to get rid of him when he pulls bodies in. He will never admit that he’s intimidated by me and jealous. But we both know the truth. My skills on the turntables are lovely, and I will put that shit to the test anytime, anyplace. But at least Money T isn’t as bad as some guys who refuse to work with me at all. Dumb asses! They let their egos get in the way of their careers, and I don’t understand that, but as far as I’m concerned, they can kiss my pretty ass.

  My favorite waitress, Blaze, cheerfully greets me before handing me a Heineken and a shot of Jack. “You look outrageous!” she squeals. “Knock ’em dead, girlfriend.”

  “Thanks, Mama,” I say appreciatively, then slip her a ten spot. I don’t have to pay for drinks, but by hooking Blaze up every now and then, she always takes real good care of me.

  Money T ends his set and steps away from the decks. I perform the ritualistic splash of whiskey and brew into a trash can for Kaos. Then I hook my laptop and the turntables up to my Serato Scratch Live Box, the interface that connects my computer to the sound system, and pull out the vinyl control platters. Some DJs are purists and say that traditional vinyl is the only way. But I disagree. I think a good DJ can spin with vinyl or CDs or a laptop. Hell, I can rock a club with eight-track cassettes if need be. My few high-tech tools enable me to do the same thing I would have to carry a million crates to do, and I’m too cute to be lugging that stuff around.

  I scan the crowd. They’re young, upscale, and definitely ready to get crunk. The VIP sections are filled with socialites that want to dance on the tables so badly I can see it in their eyes. There are a few athletes in the house, and a couple of rappers. There are a few dope boys and kingpins in the house trying to outdo one another and see who can buy the most bottles and cop the most honeys. I make mental notes on who to check on when I’m done. As always, I’m in the mood for a little fun.

  There are wall-to-wall bodies, and as usual, there are a ton of beautiful women, the South Beach trademark. I cue up the first two tracks of my set and exhale. I signal to my lighting guy that I’m ready to begin my set.

  There’s the sound of an explosion and then the room goes dark. Sirens blare as red and blue police lights perched atop speakers flood the room with bright flashes of light. Smoke swirls around the crowd’s legs and multicolored lasers dance about, making designs on the walls before spelling out Ms. Bobbi on the wall behind me. A spotlight shines down on me and my pulse races wildly as people begin to hoot and applaud. The crystals on my chest pick up the lights and make me shine as bright as a Fourth of July sparkler, as smoke billows from either side of me and I begin to execute the cutting and scratching tricks I’m known for.

  I start out with some songs that are sure to please the ladies. They go wild as I play “Queen Bitch” by Lil’ Kim. One advantage to being a woman in the game is that I know what women like to hear. And once you get the women on the dance floor having a good time shaking their asses, the men are sure to follow. I mean really, how sexy is it to watch a bunch of hard legs two-stepping with each other? But when you have a bunch of girls dancing with each other, it’s a totally different story. I see Money T roll his eyes as he stands off to the side, observing the way things should be done. Watch and learn, I say to myself.

  Miami seems to be made up of about 60 percent transplanted or vacationing New Yorkers, so I yell out, “Is Brooklyn in the house?” The crowd yells “without a doubt” in response and I play Notorious B.I.G.’s “Big Poppa.” I throw in Jay-Z and Foxy Brown’s “Ain’t No Nigga” and watch the women all sway and shimmy to the classic duet. Brooklyn is definitely in the house. I play around, segueing from B.I.G. to Jigga and back again, and the result is hotter than the Biggie duets album. Then I create a lyrical battle between Foxy and Kim, switching back and forth between their songs so that it sounds like they’re challenging and answering each other. I ask, “Is Queens in the house?” Then I add some Nas joints and a little Mobb Deep into the brew. I ask the sea of writhing bodies, “Where’s Miami?” When I play Trick and Trina’s “Take It to the House,” all the Miami girls start popping their asses and dropping to the floor. I know that I have the crowd right where I want them, in the palm of my hand.

  My set lasts three hours. I was scheduled to play two, but an encore was demanded. For me DJ’ing is about making people happy and making sure that they have the best time possible, and I don’t stop until I know my mission is accomplished. Shortee is up next and, after her, Beverly Bond will close things out. I’m restless and not ready to go home just yet so I sit in the VIP section and order a bottle of Cristal from Blaze. Why not celebrate, right?

  I go speak to Missy and we chop it up for a little while and then I return to my table when I see my champagne arrive. I spot Q, and I swear that he’s staring at me, but when I smile at him he simply turns away. Fuck him! I pop the bottle open myself, letting a little of the foam spill over onto the floor before pouring myself a glass of bubbly. That way I don’t have to pour any out for Kaos because it costs too much to just dump. I’m not sitting there for more than five minutes before I’m joined by a model and a rising actor who’s in town shooting his first movie; they come to congratulate me on my set.

  They’re a little on the strange side, and I get the distinct feeling that they’re trying to initiate a threesome, but I’m not really interested. The model is beautiful, but so
thin that she’s borderline anorexic. I want to feed her, not fuck her. And the actor is clearly geeking off coke, and I’m in no mood to babysit a tweaker. I refrain from saying much, hoping that they’ll get the point and go away, but no such luck. They just sit there chattering away, guzzling my champagne and getting on my nerves. I glance around, debating if the scene was worth any more of my time when a man seated alone on a banquette starts flirting with me.

  I drink in the sight of this man. He’s about five foot ten, a little short for my taste, and appears to be in his mid to late forties, a little old for my taste. Generally, I don’t like anything old but money, but something about this guy intrigues me. Maybe it’s the fact that the crowd is young, hip-hop, and overwhelmingly black, and he is none of those things. I can’t help but wonder what he’s doing here and if he feels out of place. He certainly looks comfortable and confident, and that adds to his allure.

  He has high cheekbones, a crop of dark wavy hair, piercing green eyes, and he’s in all black, Armani I assume, from the excellent cut and the way the fabric drapes over his lean frame. He reminds me of an even more fly version of Bono, the lead singer of U2. Very sexy indeed! I return his flirtatious glances, seductively trailing my finger around the rim of my champagne glass. He smiles. I smile back.

  “Excuse me, but I see someone I must talk to. Have a good night.” I pour the rest of the champagne in my glass leaving the bony babe and her guy, and head toward the mystery man.

  “Hello,” I say as seductively as possible, slightly arching my back so that he’ll take notice of my breasts.

  “Hello, Ms. Bobbi,” the mystery man replies in a thick accent. “You were incredible tonight,” he says.

  “So you know who I am?” I ask, grinning. I absolutely love to be recognized, even if it’s right after I step down from the DJ booth. It lets me know that people are paying attention.

  “Naturally. I came here just to see you,” he tells me.