Queen of Miami

by M?ta Smith

  I’m so geeked to be doing my first magazine feature. I hope it’s the first of many. The process is actually really fun and exciting; I arrive at the club at one in the afternoon and I’m immediately whisked into hair and makeup, which are actually a beautician and a makeup artist that have set up camp in the ladies’ restroom. They inform me that the shoot and interview are going to last about eight hours in total, including a lunch break, and that we’re going to go through a variety of different looks.

  I go through several different extremes. The stylists curl my hair and then they straighten it. They pin in hair extensions to make my hair super huge, and they also have me rock a short, cropped wig that frames my head like a sleek cap. My makeup goes from subdued to surreal and back again. And my wardrobe ranges from what could only be described as business/sexy to nearly nude, and everything in between. The cool thing is that they snap Polaroids and take pictures for me with my digital camera to capture all the looks for posterity. The wardrobe stylist even lets me keep a couple of the outfits that I fall in love with from the shoot. But I have to promise to wear them again because they’re from the fashion line that she’s trying to launch. The pieces and their designer are so nice that I promise her I’ll break my (new) rule of never being seen in something more than once just for her.

  The magazine offered to arrange catering for the whole deal, but I decide to have one of my favorite little soul food spots located in Overtown called People’s Bar-B-Que to provide the craft service. I don’t want any brown rice and vegetables; I want good old-fashioned meat and potatoes. The staff on the photo shoot all seem to be surprised when a table is filled with serving platters and dishes of collard greens, cornbread, baked macaroni and cheese, fried chicken and catfish, baked chicken and whiting, salad, coleslaw, and candied yams.

  The writer interviews me while I’m posing for pictures from behind the turntables; she says she wants my authentic personality so she wants to talk to me where I’m most at ease. I practice scratching while she asks me questions, and very candid ones at that. She asks for my opinion on interracial relationships, on the state of hip-hop, about my family, and what it feels like to be called “the black Paris Hilton,” something I had no idea that anyone referred to me as.

  I answer frankly and honestly and hope to God she doesn’t misquote me or distort my words. I don’t want to end up looking like an asshole. The writer tells me that I did a great job (don’t they always say that?) and that she’s going to pull a few strings to make sure that the article will appear in the December 2006 issue of the magazine. She also assures me that pictures from the club will be featured in the Shot on Site section of Ocean Drive whenever I want.

  Sascha is pleased to hear the news when I tell her, and she lets me know that requests for additional interviews are pouring in from every publication, from Essence and Black Enterprise to Scratch, XXL, and Vibe. She tells me that I’m a natural at handling the press since I’ve pretty much grown up doing it, but that it wouldn’t hurt to go through some additional media training as a sort of refresher course. I agree and she makes arrangements and then she tells me the coup de grace, that I’ve got some offers for a few endorsement deals on the table. I’ve been offered a chance to be a spokesperson for Numark, an invitation to walk the catwalk in a Heatherette fashion show and do some print ads for them, and my name is on the guest list for just about every hot event in town.

  I’m the darling of the social scene and it’s a strange transition for me to go from worker to guest. Even when I was on the cruise with Mikhail, I felt as if it were more business than pleasure. I didn’t feel like I was a part of that whole private jet set; I just thought I entertained them. When I’m DJ’ing, I’m an outsider, I’m on the fringes. I choose to be as involved or as uninvolved as I want. I can be seen and heard but not have to be all caught up in the bullshit and phoniness of the club scene if I don’t want to. But now I don’t have a choice. I’m going to have to be social and play well with others, and being the rebel that I am, I don’t know how all of it is going to work out.

  But apparently, my fears are for naught. I am the toast of the Atlantic coast, attending cocktail parties on SoBe and formal events in Palm Beach with Mikhail by my side. He still doesn’t know that I know about his and Rebeca’s affair. He plays the role of the doting boyfriend to a T when we’re out in public. And I learn a thing or two from Mikhail’s duality. I can turn on the charm I didn’t know I had and schmooze with the best of them.

  Everything is fine and I’m sailing along the scene smoothly until Mikhail and I attend a party at Casa Casuarina, the former Gianni Versace mansion. I’m the DJ at the party, which is held in celebration of a new clothing line called Dika, named after its creator, a model turned fashion designer. Dika is everything you think of when you hear the word supermodel. She’s amazingly tall, around six feet two, and is all legs. She’s got that ambiguous look that is so popular now; when you look at her you have no idea what her heritage is; she could be Latin, Asian, or African American. Her skin is creamy and smooth, her eyes are dark and exotic, and her hair is an unruly curly mop that sprouts out from her head in copper-colored ringlets. She has a very faint sprinkling of freckles across her nose and cheeks, and she’s wearing a bright orange gown from her collection of sleek and sexy clothes that have more than a hint of South Beach style.

  A party that honors a classy stunner like Dika is the last place I expect to see Misty Blue, but she’s there, dressed inappropriately in a baby blue dress that would be more at home on the stage of a strip club than at an exclusive party at the luxe Mediterranean-style villa. It’s floor length, with a slit up to Canada, and is made of stretchy Lycra that is dusted with glitter. Not sequins, not rhinestones, not crystals, but glitter. Her boobs are spilling out of the top, and her nipples are erect and beaconing men to come hither. She’s even rocking the proverbial stripper/hooker clear platform shoes.

  Misty checks me out behind the turntables then strides right over to Mikhail, who is standing with Dimitri and a bunch of men sipping on the signature cocktail, a huge mojito served in a coconut shell “glass.” She thinks that I won’t do anything or say anything to stop her while I’m working, and she’s right. I keep doing my thing, because I am not about to let that tramp distract me from my duties, but I do take notice that she and Mikhail disappear into the night.

  I’m burning up inside; not because I’m jealous, but because I am sick of tolerating the blatant disrespect from chicks like Misty and Rebeca. I’ve had it up to here with pretending that everything is cool. These hos could at least be discreet; they’ve got me fucked up if they think that I’m going to continue to let them keep throwing themselves at Mikhail in my presence and the presence of everyone on the scene. This isn’t about feelings, it’s about the principle of the matter. These broads obviously don’t take me seriously. If I keep letting them get away with shit like this, my reputation could be irreparably damaged. Folks will start treating me like I’m a joke and I’ve worked too hard and sacrificed too much to get to this point.

  I take out my frustrations on the turntables and crossfader, cutting records up like a pair of dressmaker’s shears. The dance floor is packed, and people are shaking and bouncing and grinding away. It’s one of my best performances ever; maybe I should spin angry more often. Even the elegant and sophisticated Dika climbs on top of a giant speaker and starts to get her groove on until she sweats. I finally see Misty and Mikhail reappear. Mikhail is walking steps ahead of Misty, pretending he can’t hear her, but she’s obviously upset. She’s shouting something at his back until Mikhail motions to Dimitri, and he swiftly grabs Misty by the shoulders and makes a hasty exit, practically dragging her.

  “What was that bitch doing here?” I ask Mikhail as soon as my set is done and supermodel/DJ Sky Nellor takes her turn at bat.

  “Bobbi, she’s gone now. Don’t make a scene,” he says, quickly.

  “Not going to. I just want to know why the two of you disappeared and w
hat went down,” I say, and guide Mikhail away from the action of the party to duck behind one of the manicured hedges. “I want to know why you’ve got her cheap silver glitter all over you.”

  “Look, I told you that there is nothing going on between Misty and me. Nothing,” he says firmly.

  “What, just like there’s nothing going on with you and Rebeca?” I ask.

  “There’s nothing going on between me and Rebeca. You are being paranoid,” Mikhail states.

  “Please! I know you’re cheating on me with her,” I say. Finally it is out on the table.

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says.

  “You don’t know what I know! I saw you and Rebeca together the night of the opening. I caught the two of you in her office. You were eating her pussy like your life depended on it. And I know about Misty’s side hustles for you. I know that you pimp her out to help your business.”

  I am silenced by a slap across the face. This isn’t one of his normal bedroom slaps either. This is an Iceberg Slim, p-i-m-p slap with the back of his hand.

  “You motherfucker,” I yell at him. “You’re the one cheating on me, and you hit me? We’re over. You’ll be hearing from my lawyers about Babylon,” I spit and start to walk away. Mikhail grabs a handful of my hair and yanks me back to him.

  “If you’re smart, you’ll stay out of things that don’t concern you and you won’t bring any lawyers into this. Rebeca and I are what Rebeca and I are. It doesn’t concern you. And just forget about what you think you know about Misty. I’m not sleeping with her. That’s been over for a long time,” he says.

  “Oh, so you were fucking her? You were fucking a common prostitute and then you come back and fuck me raw dog with your dirty dick? You’ve got me all fucked up,” I say. Mikhail still has me by the hair, but I take the heel of my hand and slap him upside the head with it as hard as I can.

  Mikhail balls up his fist and clocks me one good time in the eye. I fall to the ground, but I’m so furious that I can barely feel the blow. I tackle Mikhail by the legs, sacking him like a defensive tackle on the gridiron. We wrestle and writhe on the ground, Mikhail trying to restrain me. It’s not an easy job. I’m a whirling dervish of fury, swinging my arms, trying to scratch him, bite him, and kick him. My knee makes contact with his groin hard. As he balls up in pain I run out of the party and down Ocean Drive in a now filthy and ripped sheer printed chiffon, off-the-shoulder Versace dress and bare feet. I don’t even stop to pick up my shoes. For all I know, this motherfucker will try to kill me.

  I don’t stop running until I’ve reached a café a few blocks down the road and duck inside. Of course one of the servers tries to stop me from entering since I’m not wearing shoes, but another one, a guy that I slept with a couple years back, lets me in. He escorts me to the restroom, and comes back a few moments later with a pair of flip-flops. I don’t know who they belong to or where he got them from, but at that moment I don’t care; I’m no Britney Spears, so the thought of being barefoot in a public bathroom makes me sick to my stomach. I gratefully slip the shoes on my feet.

  “I always knew that mouth of yours would get you into trouble one day,” quips Tony, the server I used to bone. “Who’d you go off on this time, Ms. Bobbi?”

  I start crying. I mean straight up bawling. I’m immediately ashamed and I cover my face with my hands. Tony locks the door to the ladies’ room.

  “Are you okay?” he asks. “You aren’t hurt, are you?”

  “I’m fine. I just had a fight,” I explain, my voice trailing off.

  “Want a line?” he asks. I haven’t touched coke in years, mainly because for me it’s like potato chips. I can’t stop with just one bump or one line.

  “Got anything else?” I ask.

  “Tina?” he says, referring to crystal meth. No way am I going to do crank. The last thing I need is to be on fast forward for the next eighteen hours.

  “I need to relax,” I tell him.

  “Vicodin,” he says. What the fuck is this guy, a drugstore?

  “Cool. But as you can see I don’t have a purse. It’ll have to be a gift,” I say.

  “No problem,” he says. “Just make sure I don’t have to wait in line forever when I come to Babylon. I heard you’re doing big things over there.”

  “Yeah,” I say dryly.

  “Is everything okay?” he asks again as I pop the Vicodin into my mouth and swallow it dry.

  “Peachy fucking keen,” I say as I wait for the muscle relaxant to begin to take effect.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  FROM THE CAFÉ, I HOP IN A CAB AND HEAD TO MY OLD condo. I’m so glad that I didn’t sell it, and although I was looking for someone to rent it out, it’s not occupied and some of my old furniture is still there. I don’t have my purse or keys, but the doorman lets me in when he sees my disheveled state, and offers to send someone out if I need anything. When I finally take a look at myself in the mirror, I start crying. My mouth is swollen and my eye is black. I can’t believe that my boyfriend actually beat me. Luckily my pity party doesn’t last long, and I doze off from the effects of too much stress and the Vicodin.

  I camp out at my old crib for a couple of days, but I know that I have to face the music at some point. Pissed at Mikhail or not, I have a business to run, and there are things that need to be done. I’m not sure what kind of vibe Mikhail is on. He might still be on some old Ike Turner bullshit, so the last place I want to go is the estate. But I have no money, no credit cards, no ID, and no clothes to change into. I’ve decided that I’ll stay at my place until some alternate arrangements can be made, but I desperately need to get back to the home I share with Mikhail in order to get some necessities. Luckily, I have a credit card on file with Take Out Taxi, so I can get food from my favorite restaurants delivered. I order a pizza and a calzone, and decide to pig out and then face my problems on a full, if not bloated, stomach.

  I turn on the television and absentmindedly surf the channels while I wait for my food to arrive. I know I look like a hot mess, because when the deliveryman arrives he gives me a look that says What the hell happened to you? The ring around my eye hasn’t gotten any lighter, and my top lip is still puffy.

  “This was on your doorstep,” he says, handing me a newspaper. It’s a mistake—I don’t subscribe—but I decide to take the copy of the Herald anyway.

  “I just got plastic surgery,” I say to him since he’s staring at my bruised and swollen face. He nods knowingly and leaves. Then I settle on the couch, dig into my food, and start thumbing through the paper.

  The first thing that grabs my attention is the headline of the local news section. ADULT FILM STAR FOUND DEAD IN APPARENT DRUG OVERDOSE. A large picture of Misty Blue is beneath it. I almost choke on my pizza. I can’t believe it! Misty, dead? I read the article quickly. Misty Blue, adult film star and Russian national, real name Ivanka Zernova, age twenty-six, was found dead of a heroin overdose in her Coconut Grove apartment. I sit there and let it sink in. It’s no secret that I was no fan of Misty’s, and there were many times when I wanted to kill her myself. But I had no idea that she was some sort of junkie, and I couldn’t help but wonder if her overdose was an intentional suicide. She was probably a very unhappy woman, and plenty of porn stars have offed themselves when life just got to be too much. Russian national, huh? I guess that’s part of the reason why she and Mikhail were so buddy-buddy.

  I pick up the phone to call Amara to see if she’s heard the news.

  “Hello?” Amara says when she picks up the phone. She sounds a little hoarse, like she’s coming down with a cold.

  “Amara, it’s me, Bobbi. Are you okay?” I ask. “You sound sick.”

  “Bobbi, baby. I’m so glad to hear from you. I was just sleeping, but I have been worried sick about you.”

  “Worried sick about me? Why?” I ask Amara.

  “Baby, Mikhail called and asked if I’d heard from you. He said you’ve been missing for days. He sounded really concerned.”
Oh yeah, I did have my cell phone shut off, considering Mikhail had been calling and texting me like crazy.

  “I’m not missing, Amara. I’m at home,” I tell her.

  “But that’s impossible, baby. Mikhail said you hadn’t been home in days.”

  “I haven’t been to his home in days. I’ve been at my house. I have my own condo, and Mikhail knows exactly where it is,” I say. “I just had the doorman say that the unit had been rented if anyone asked for me.”

  “So what happened?” Amara asks.

  “Mikhail didn’t tell you what happened?” I ask.

  “No, he didn’t. Are you going to tell me?”

  “Mikhail and I had a fight. A huge fight,” I say.

  “Over what?” she asks.

  Wow, where to start? “More like over whom. Who’s our favorite person to argue about? Misty Blue, of course,” I say.

  “That hag. She’s vile. I don’t know why you let her get to you. Mikhail has the woman that he wants,” she says. “He’s not interested in that whore.”

  “He wasn’t interested in that whore. Misty is dead,” I say dryly.

  “Dead? Baby, what are you talking about?” she asks. She obviously hasn’t heard the news.

  “Misty was found dead in her apartment in the wee hours of the morning, according to the newspaper,” I tell her.

  “What?”

  “You heard me. Misty is dead,” I say. “It was in yesterday’s Herald. It’s so weird because I was ready to kill her just a few nights ago, and now she’s dead.”

  “Careful what you say, Bobbi. You don’t want anyone poking around in your affairs and considering you a suspect,” Amara says.