by M?ta Smith
Because of all the publicity and excitement around tonight, people recognize me on the streets now, and they wave or stop and say hello. Some just whisper and point at me, like I’m a movie star that they’re too intimidated to approach. There are flyers in every boutique and shop, and ads have run in the papers as well as local entertainment magazines. The streets are talking and there’s one word on their lips: Babylon.
At 5:00 PM I head to the club to prepare for the festivities. When I take out that diamond-encrusted key chain and turn my key in the lock, I wonder if it’s the last time I’ll do so. I practice a little bit and do a final sound check of all the audio equipment. Everything sounds great and I can’t wait to throw down later on. At 6:00 PM the staff arrives for dinner and a meeting before the doors open. That was my idea, because Mikhail can afford it and our staff deserves it. Mikhail doesn’t even care that his actions could put the livelihood of so many people in jeopardy. These people need their jobs, and if there’s no club, there’s no job. But of course he doesn’t give a fuck about the little man.
As the dinner plates of chicken, beef tenderloin, fish, and plenty of veggies are cleared and coffee is served, Q, Rebeca, and I each make brief presentations about security policies as well as bar and door policies, and finalize the order of events for the night. The staff signs releases for MTV and ABC, giving them the right to use their images and likenesses on camera, and by nine o’clock, camera teams are on location setting up lights and testing feeds. Everything is in place and running like clockwork.
The employees are all changing into their uniforms. The cocktail servers are decked out in revealing little harem girl outfits, and the men wear masculine but sexy tunics and pants sets. The security staff is outfitted in black Hugo Boss suits that I’ve ordered for them; I want them to look uniform and classy, but not stand out too much. Everyone looks fantastic; I’ve never seen a more attractive and in shape bunch of people in one room. I swear everyone is good-looking enough to be a part-time model or actor.
La La is the MTV on-air correspondent, and she arrives looking amazing in a cobalt blue dress that flatters her coloring, hazel eyes, and buxom figure. We chat for a while about her upcoming nuptials to Carmelo Anthony, and go over marks and placement with the cameramen, and then I bid them adieu for the moment so that I can go to my office to get changed into the first of my many outfits for the evening. My stomach is all fluttery and I hope to God that my palms aren’t all clammy since I’ve been shaking everybody’s hand. I sniff under my arms, and after I see that I still smell fresh, I pat my pits with tissues, slick on a couple of precautionary swipes of clear deodorant, and slip into a shimmery metallic gold Zac Posen cinched-waist number that really accentuates my curves.
Meanwhile, people are filling in downstairs and I hear the thumping sounds of the warm-up DJ, who’s playing some garage house. I go down the back stairs and out to my Range, which is parked by the exit. I look at the sky and see the spotlight beckoning for one and all to come check out my club. I look at my watch and see that I’m right on time. La La and the MTV crew, the camera crew for Deco Drive, and a plethora of other photographers should be camped out front, ready to snap pictures of the glitterati as they walk the red carpet. I start up the truck and the sounds of Frankie Beverly and Maze’s “Before I Let Go” wash over me. I’m in a groove as I pull around to the front of the club so I can be interviewed and photographed on the red carpet, and then I join the special VIP guests for cocktails.
I sail through everything looking beautiful and confident. I am poised and charming as I mix and mingle with the celebrities from every level: national, local, and even ghetto. I think to myself that, aside from the illegalities, Mother really ought to be proud of my club. I’m glamorous, my guest list has just the right mix, and everything looks fabulous. The only difference between what I do at my club and what she does with her fundraisers and society soirees is that people are actually going to have fun instead of faking it.
At 10:30 PM I go to change into my second outfit, a sassy Atelier Versace gown that makes that famous JLo dress look like a burkah. I have no idea why something so skimpy costs well into five figures, but when I slip it on and the soft, silky fabric kisses and caresses my body I truly feel like the Queen of Miami. It’s worth every penny. The neckline plunges all the way to my navel, and my boobs barely stay inside the skimpy top. A pendant of rhinestones connects both sides of the top of the dress and dangles provocatively in my cleavage. The bottom of the dress is split so high that I’m afraid I’m going to give someone an eyeful of smiling snatch at any second. It’s a very dressy gown and no, this ain’t the Oscars, but it is New Year’s Eve and this is my party. I’m going to be up on stage and beamed into millions of homes introducing some of hip-hop’s finest, so I want to make sure that I stand out.
I touch up my makeup and slip on a pair of custom-made shoes that are encrusted with genuine white and canary diamonds and accented with citrines that match the bright yellow of the dress. My skin is glistening thanks to an application of NARS Body Glow; I’m as radiant as the sun. I can hear the crowd ooh and ahh as I make my way to the stage, verification that the outfit is perfect.
“I want to welcome you, on behalf of myself and the amazing team that makes this club run, to Babylon!” I say excitedly into the mic.
“That’s right,” La La says. “You’re here at the hottest nightclub on South Beach to witness a historical event. We’ve got the hottest DJ in America, the first lady of the club scene, the queen of Miami, Ms. Bobbi here.” The crowd cheers and applauds and I have the nerve to damn near blush.
“And we’ve got MTV and the hottest MTV VJ here. La La Vasquez in the house!” I scream and the crowd takes the energy up a notch in anticipation.
“And we’ve got the female all-stars of hip-hop here to perform a new take on a classic hit, ‘Not Tonight (Ladies Night)’!” La La concludes. The curtains are pulled back, and a mini pyrotechnic show lights the club up with sparklers, flames, and lots of smoke. I pray to God that nothing catches on fire as Missy steps onto the stage looking trim and fit, singing and dancing her heart out and winning the crowd over with her megawatt smile.
I can barely hear the women rapping over the screams of the crowd. The performance is viewable on the giant projection screens situated around the main room, as well as in the other rooms and all the VIP sections. Kim has never looked better and I’m so glad she’s home. Foxy sounds great and appears healthy and refreshed and I’m sincerely happy that God and surgery have healed her deafness. Trina looks toned and in shape even though she still has ass for days, and her hair and makeup are perfect, even if I don’t care for her outfit. Jacki-O is very ladylike and raw at the same time, and with most of her monetary troubles behind her, her fans seem to be happy to see her back on top. Dez is absolutely phenomenal; not only does she have flow, but she looks breathtakingly beautiful. I can’t believe that with all the beefs that have gone down among various members of this ensemble, everyone seems to be getting along.
When they finish and take their bows we all gather on the stage for the countdown to 2007. A round of Krug is served to us, and we wait to toast in the New Year. The screens now show a split shot of Babylon and Times Square as the crowd begins to chant, Ten . . . nine . . .
I can’t believe that this is my life. I became an internationally known DJ, I opened a nightclub, and I’ve arranged for one of the most anticipated events in hip-hop to take place. My status as an industry legend can’t be denied. To the naked eye I am a woman in control, and everything is running along as smooth as the ride in a brand-new Lexus.
Eight . . . seven . . . six . . .
As hard as I’ve worked, I’m still not free. Instead of having my parents controlling my life, it’s Mikhail. As a result, I can’t share this night with my friend Amara or the man I genuinely care for, Q. I’ve got the whole world in my hands and yet I can’t have the one that I want on my arm.
Five . . . four . . .
&n
bsp; Fuck it! I’m the queen of Miami. I can reign alone.
Three . . . two . . . one . . . Happy New Year!
Confetti drops, a laser light show ensues, and everyone around me is hugging and kissing their friends, loved ones, and lusted ones. Everyone but me. I smile and survey my kingdom, full of mixed emotions, perhaps a little empty inside, but still quite satisfied with my accomplishments. I look at the screens that are showing couples smooching in the New Year. It does make me feel good to see everyone look so happy. I feel good for everyone except for Mikhail and Rebeca, whose image gets shown on the jumbo screen, entangled in a passionate kiss. Knowing Rebeca, she probably arranged for it to happen; she’s such a bitch. Doesn’t she understand that I don’t want Mikhail, that she can have him?
I don’t have the desire or the time to think about Rebeca or Mikhail. I’m about to spin, so I run and change clothes once again. This time I’m rocking a dress made entirely of shiny silver CDs. I become one with the turntables as I deliver a set that leaves every seat and every wall empty. Everyone is out on the dance floor, on top of tables and banquettes, dancing and enjoying themselves. I force myself to get into it and have fun, because after all it is my night, and nothing but nothing is going to steal my joy.
After my performance I go straight to the bar, get behind it, and grab a bottle of Moet. I’d prefer Krug—my palette is spoiled now—but it’s the first bottle of bubbly I can get my hands on. I go to my office, shut the door, and pour out a little bit of champagne.
“This is for you, Kaos, and for you, Amara, wherever you are. I hope you’re okay.” I guzzle some of the champagne and flop down into my leather chair. I am so frustrated with my situation, I don’t know what to do. I never thought I’d be waging another battle for the sake of my career. I get up from the chair and pace the floor. The door opens and Mikhail and Rebeca barge into my office.
“What do you two want?” I ask bitterly. Rebeca is clutching Mikhail’s arm and pushing her body so close into him that she looks like his Siamese twin.
“I have to tell you something,” Mikhail says seriously.
I hope to God that he’s telling me that he’s going to walk out of my life and just let me have my club and that he and Rebeca plan to live happily ever after in a galaxy far, far away.
“Let me guess? The two of you are getting married?” I ask sarcastically.
“Bobbi, there’s been an accident,” he says firmly. Rebeca rubs his back soothingly and glares at me with her beady little eyes.
“What happened?” I ask, exasperated. This is probably some bullshit Mikhail and Rebeca have cooked up to throw another monkey wrench into my night. God, I am so sick of them. Enough already!
“Amara is dead,” Mikhail says.
“This is not funny,” I say.
“It is no joke. Amara is dead,” he says.
“How?” I ask. I don’t know what to think. Has something really happened to Amara or is this part of her plan to disappear?
“It was unfortunate,” Mikhail says. “But it had to be done.”
“What do you mean, it had to be done?” I ask. This doesn’t sound good at all.
Rebeca and Mikhail look at each other and Mikhail nods at her. Rebeca locks my office door and stands in front of it.
“What the hell are you doing, Rebeca?” I ask her. She just smiles an evil smile. I head toward the door but Mikhail stops me.
“I’m afraid your friend Amara was cooperating with the police,” Mikhail says, grabbing me by the neck.
“What is that supposed to mean?” I ask hoarsely, but I know what it means. Amara had been snitching. That’s why she thought Dimitri might kill her and why she went AWOL on Christmas. It’s what she was referring to as “what she’d been doing.”
“I think you know very well what it means,” Mikhail says. “We know that you and Amara spoke on Christmas Eve. We’ve checked her cell phone records.”
“And? It was Christmas and she was my friend. She called to wish me a Merry Christmas.”
“No, Bobbi, that wasn’t it. That was the night she thought she could escape. After she talked with you she called an Interpol agent. There had been several calls to this agent, and I think you know why,” Mikhail says.
“What’s Interpol?” I ask Mikhail. I know damn well that they’re the international police, but playing dumb is worth a shot.
“Don’t play games with me, Bobbi. I guarantee that you will not win. Now, I asked you why you think she called an Interpol agent.”
“I don’t know. Why didn’t you ask her?” I ask him.
“May I?” Rebeca asks Mikhail.
“Please do,” Mikhail tells her.
Rebeca walks up to me and administers a kick to my midsection. It hurts like hell and catches me totally off guard, but I don’t fall or double over. I jump on Rebeca as swift as a panther. I do my best to whoop her ass, and I get a few good licks in, but I’m outnumbered and Mikhail isn’t going to play fair. He stops the action by pulling out a gun and putting it against the back of my head. I feel the coldness of hard steel poking into my scalp and immediately stiffen. The shit has officially hit the fan.
“I think you know more than you’re telling,” Mikhail says. “But I have ways to make you talk.” Mikhail whirls me around roughly and points the barrel of the gun at me. Rebeca dusts herself off and returns to her post blocking the door.
Where is Q when I need him? I wonder silently. He promised to have my back and now he’s nowhere to be found. He made it seem as if all I had to do was sit back and he’d fix all this before things got worse. I should have come up with a backup plan and acted on it immediately, and now it’s too late.
“Come now, sweet angel. We’re going to go somewhere nice and private where we can chat,” he tells me.
“I’m not going anywhere with you,” I tell Mikhail. I’ve always heard that if you allow an abductor to move you from one location to another that your chances of survival decline exponentially. The way I see it, I have a fifty-fifty chance of escaping if I can avoid being moved somewhere else. If I can find Q, then I’ve got better odds of surviving. Mikhail isn’t going to shoot me in the middle of my club in front of witnesses. And with the staff milling about, he probably isn’t going to shoot me in my office. If I can only get to the main area, I can make a run for it. Mikhail is not about to take me to God knows where to do God knows what.
“This gun means that you will do whatever I ask you to do,” he says.
“You’re going to kill me either way,” I say. “You may as well just do it now.”
“My, aren’t we courageous?” Rebeca asks sarcastically.
“Fuck you,” I spit. “You won’t get away with this. If anything happens to me, my father won’t rest until you’re brought to justice.”
“If your father comes after me, your father is a dead man. Your grandfather and your mother as well,” Mikhail threatens me.
“Then I guess we’re at an impasse,” I say to him. “Because I don’t know anything. I can’t help you. So just shoot me.” I say a silent prayer that God will deliver me from this pit. I can remember my grandfather preaching a sermon from the book of Daniel, and I hope I will be shielded like Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego, three slaves in Babylon who refused to bow down to a golden idol. They were thrown into a fiery furnace but emerged unharmed. I pray that God shows me mercy because I believe he can deliver me, just as he delivered Daniel from the lion’s den without a scratch. And if deliverance isn’t in my cards, I pray that my sins are forgiven and that I go to heaven. I just hope Q gets to me before a bullet does.
“Perhaps you will change your mind when you hear this,” Mikhail says. “Make the call, Rebeca,” he tells her. Rebeca whips out her cell phone and starts punching in some numbers.
She hands Mikhail the phone and he begins to converse in Russian. Then Mikhail shoves the phone against my ear.
“Boss Lady! Are you okay?” Q is on the other end of the phone. My eyes go wide and I feel all t
he blood draining from my body.
“Q? What’s going on?” I ask him.
“Baby, I’m so sorry,” he says.
“Where are you?” I ask and Mikhail snatches the phone away.
“You thought I didn’t know about your little fling?” Mikhail asks me. I don’t answer him. “I bet you thought that Q would be your knight in shining armor, didn’t you? Did you think that he could protect you? Rescue you? Some knight. I just don’t understand why you’d trust him instead of me. This hurts me. I’ve given you everything and this is how you repay me?” Mikhail says, looking hurt.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I lie. “Whatever you think is going on is just a misunderstanding. Baby, we can work this out,” I say.
“Bobbi, I don’t believe you. We’ll see if you don’t change your tune in a little bit. Once you see your little friend, I’m sure you’ll cooperate.”
Mikhail stops pointing the gun at me and uncocks it. He removes a magazine of bullets from the gun, puts the cartridge in his pocket, and twirls the gun until he’s holding it by the barrel. He raises his hand and delivers a blow with the butt of the gun to my temple, and then everything goes black.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
WHEN I COME TO, I HEAR LAUGHTER AND THE CLINKING of glasses. I will my eyes to focus despite the throbbing of my head. When the room stops spinning, I see Rebeca and Mikhail kissing and doing shots of vodka. I’m not sure where I am, but my surroundings look vaguely familiar. Wherever it is, it appears to be a warehouse by the looks of all the crates and packing materials around the room. I am lying on a heap of rags and sheets, and I try to sit up but my wrists and ankles are duct-taped together and I can’t gain my balance.