“Ritz, this treachery takes me back to the shadiness that I had to deal with at Uni-Global. And you know what saved me? I built a Go-Getter garden: Dig up those weeds of self-doubt. Cultivate the soil of spirituality. Plant that seed of faith. And nurture your garden daily with hard work and good deeds. Do that for yourself, Ritz, if you want to be successful.”
Ritz didn’t have a clue about what Tracee was saying. It sounded so hokey. But she managed to respond, “I will.”
“Don’t worry.” Tracee knew her friend better than she knew herself. “I will help you every step of the way. I will show you what to do. It doesn’t happen overnight. It takes time. You’re on your way home now, right?”
“Not right away. I have a pitch meeting today with the Big Four. I’m going to do that, and then I’m heading back to fight for my job, if I still have one.”
“I don’t think it’s a good idea to go to the pitch meeting.”
“Why? Because you don’t think I’m good for television, either?”
“No, actually, I think you’re absolutely perfect for television. I see that for you. My concern is all that’s taken place since you’ve been there. And I don’t like how you came into the contract. I have a lot of contacts in television. Remember, you’re on my old stomping ground. My advice is for you to just drop the meeting and come back home. Those studio folks will waste your time. You have some work to do back here first.”
Ritz was dumbstruck. Of course, Tray knew everything about everybody in Los Angeles. If it was television that Ritz wanted, she should have started with Tray. But now too much dirt was going on behind the scenes and Ritz wanted to keep Tray out of it.
“Are you there, Ritzy? Did you hear me? Get out of L.A., now.”
“What? And come this far for nothing? Have all of that drama go down and I come back with nothing to show for it? I’m going to the pitch meeting tomorrow, and then I’ll come back.”
“Fuck that!” Tracee yelled, shocking Ritz. “If someone put a hit on you before, they can have someone finish the job out there. Get the fuck out of L.A. right now. Throw your shit in a bag and leave that hotel. When you get to LAX, reschedule your pitch meeting with the Big Four, and I promise that I’ll go with you.”
“Okay, okay, Tray. Why are you cussin’? You’re scaring me.”
“And, Ritz, do not talk to anyone from WHOT. Don’t worry about that chick warming up your throne. I’ve got this!”
27
The Pitch
Monday, the first day of the best of her life. That’s what that detective said, right? Ritz Harper only knew how to act and react, which was a strong suit in the rough-and-tumble world of shock radio. But shock jockism doesn’t translate well in a pitch meeting. One false move, one misunderstood comment, one flat joke, one cuss word, one Ritz-ism, and she could be out on her ass.
Ritz knew this, which is why she never pitched herself—and would never go by herself. She was overly critical, and so accustomed to tripping people up when she asked them questions, that she always feared someone would turn the tables on her. In her mind, some people were just out to get her.
One such band of Ritz-haters were the Jennifers.
The Jennifers, as Ritz called them, were the cadre of usually young, thin, sometimes white music-label execs who always served as the gatekeepers to the bigwigs and artists, even though they didn’t know shit about shit. And the ones that really worked her nerves were often named Jennifer, or Jan, or Jo, or the occasional Jose.
Early in Ritz’s career, she had to battle with them all the time. The Jennifers may have been dumb, but as a rule they were bold. If they didn’t like an interview or how their client was portrayed, the Jennifers would work the phones, launching complaints to management and blocking Ritz from accessing their other major stars. Now that Ritz had the number one show, the Jennifers were powerless—the tables were turned and the Jennifers needed to get their artists on the Excursion, no matter what the outcome.
It stood to reason that the Jennifers existed in network television as well, and Ritz worried about her inability to hold her temper. When Ritz got frustrated, she lost control—cuss words, low-down digs, yo’ mama jokes, anything and everything would simmer in her mind, then explode from her lips. Chas could see the tsunami of rage before it overflowed, and he was always there to catch her and stop her. Chas wasn’t here for her now.
Her beloved Auntie M. taught her to hold her tongue, to lock it behind her teeth before she said something ugly. Auntie M. wasn’t here either. And unfortunately, that strategy hadn’t really worked for Ritz thus far. Ritz had a dilemma.
Should she follow Tracee’s advice and pack it up and come home and wage this war another time? Or would she get what she came for and not leave until she had it?
She was going to stay and take her spotlight back. Now her dilemma was how. How was she going to do it? Which Ritz should she display? Should she be the confident Queen of Radio, boisterous, loud, funny, and shocking? What if the execs misunderstood her New York brash and flavor?
Or would Ritz be Ritgina, the laid-back lady Auntie M. inspired? Could she emulate Tracee and be real, down-to-earth, and allow her fabulousness to reveal itself sporadically? Or would Ritz turn up the heat without turning them off?
It was too bad that the old, loyal Chas wasn’t around. Chas always seemed to guide Ritz, such as instructing her not to wear the “best of her star shit” when doing charity functions, or how to properly display her fabulous tits when she was working the red carpet.
And with Tracee’s experience with prepping her roster of misfit music celebrities, she would be a huge help right about now as well. But this new fire-and-brimstone Tracee seemed out of touch with the real world. Ritz couldn’t call her to get her advice on this after Tracee was adamant about Ritz’s not going. And she was adamant. Ritz had never heard the Bible-thumper cuss like that before—even before she found the Lord!
“So what’s a diva to do?” Ritz said aloud to herself. She scanned her wardrobe that she’d hung neatly in the large walk-in closet of her suite.
“If I dress too fabulously, the Jennifers may hate me. If my clothes are boring, the Jennifers may fall asleep. Hmm…
“Red says I know I’ve got it going on, or that I’m a bitch. Pink says that I’m a team player but meek. Black says I’m playing it safe and trying to look thin.”
Finally, an ensemble spoke to her.
The chocolate Prada pantsuit. Elegant and comfortable; the slim seams and the straight legs worked well with Ritz’s long frame. She was powerful, without looking masculine. And the cut slimmed her hips and waist. Ritz paired the suit with a cream Chanel bow blouse, a birthday gift from Chas—how fitting.
Tiny pearl earrings and simple chocolate heels completed her look.
Ritz longed for something hot pink to wear. Pink was her power color, it made her feel ultrafeminine and ferocious. Those good feelings would come while she was being roasted by the Jennifers, that’s for sure. Ritz donned her bright pink and leopard La Perla Malizia bra and panty set.
Ritz looked at herself in the full-length mirror. She was pleased with what she saw.
“Now it’s time to beat this face, girl!” she said to herself. Putting on her makeup was always a challenge for Ritz. One of the benefits of being the Queen of Radio was that she didn’t have to wear makeup every day. Only when the cute guys came by—the cute straight guys—did Ritz really try to accentuate her positives. When she was on the red carpet, a makeup artist handled everything.
On her own, Ritz had never quite mastered the art, and it was an art. She tried to remember what her makeup artist had told her about the nighttime vamp look versus the daytime natural look. Usually, when Ritz applied her own makeup, she opted for the nighttime look—fox-fur eyelashes, painted rouge cheeks, heavy Prince black eyeliner, day or night.
Not today, however. Ritz was not going to go overboard. “Just a dab will do ya, all around,” she told herself.
Ritz examin
ed her face, her eyes, her forehead. The swelling was long gone, and that was good; the wrinkles hadn’t formed and that was really good. Concealer, pat, pat pat…powder, and nude gloss. Clean up the brows with her tweezers, fill in the thin areas, ( just as Chas had taught her), and add a little gold dust, just a little.
Okay, just a little more gold dust.
Ritz took the glitter brush and dabbed her cheeks, her chin, her forehead. The glitter looked so hot, she thought. She sparkled like a goddess.
Ritz studied her reflection and made random faces. (A bad habit of radio deejays was saying one thing while their expression said another. In the studio, as long as the voice came through, no one gave a damn about the faces they were making, but that could be hazardous at a pitch meeting!) Ritz smiled. “Pleased to meet you,” she practiced. Now she was serious. Okay, throw your head back and to the left when laughing. Ritz was confident that smile wasn’t fake and that her “serious look” wasn’t too forced. The self-critique continued.
“Hi, I’m Ritz Harper,” she said to the mirror. No, too confident. You can’t walk in the door like you have the damn show in syndication already!
“Hi, I’m Ritgina Harper,” she said to the mirror. What the fuck is a Ritgina? Good Lord. Black mothers sure know how to fuck up their children’s names.
“Okay, let’s try the Tracee route,” she said to herself. “I’m Ritzy!”
Ritz clapped her hands like a high school cheerleader. “Gimme a R…I…T…Z…Y.
“Gimme a Y…”
Gimme a Y? “Are you tripping, you silly bitch?” Ritz laughed to herself. She welcomed the laughter and the silliness. It definitely broke her anxiety.
“Fuck it,” she said. “We’ll just go with the flow.”
The hotel phone rang, signaling that her car had arrived.
“Okay, we’re on!” Ritz gave herself one last once-over. “Let’s go get what we came for.”
Ritz walked out of the hotel, hoping to catch a glimpse of the passersby’s reactions. The ladies at the front desk smiled—they always do—and a diminutive white woman with large lips nodded approvingly.
Shit! Was that Angelina Jolie?
Ritz was looking and feeling like a million bucks as the doorman tipped his hat and motioned for her car. Her cab? Her hideous lime-green-and-yellow Crown Victoria. The cabdriver was smoking a stogie and was excited to let Ritz in his cab.
Ritz turned to the doorman and shook her head. “No. I’m sorry. Absolutely not. I called for a car service.”
The driver was hurt, but not hampered. “Lauren Bacall got in my cab once. All the stars ride with Omar!”
The blond doorman tried hard not to laugh. “Ma’am, where are you headed, exactly?”
“To the Big Four headquarters, I have a pitch meeting. I can’t roll up to my meeting in no green jitney.”
“Hey, I’m not jiggy!” Omar joked. “Why you think Omar’s cab no good? Come on, you’re the African Queen, let Omar take you safely.”
A short Italian man exited the hotel and a black sedan pulled up. The blond doorman opened the car door and sent them off.
Ritz was furious. “I want that car,” she fumed. “That’s the car service I wanted.”
“That’s his private driver,” the doorman said. “Where you’re going is less than three miles away. You won’t be in the cab for more than five minutes, tops. You really shouldn’t arrive late to your meeting. And when you pull up, no one will see you, anyway.”
“What’s so bad about being with Omar?” the driver chided.
“Omar, put out the goddamn cigar and we can roll,” she said. “I want to arrive fresh.”
“Sure, no problem. No problem, my African Queen.”
Ritz peered inside the cab: typical gray pleather seats, no ugly surprises, thank goodness! She folded her body and slid inside.
“Take her to the Big Four headquarters, 4000 Wilshire Boulevard,” the doorman said, closing her door. “And you knock ’em dead, ma’am, I’d love to hear all about it.”
Ritz smiled. That white boy was kinda cute. Hmm.
The lime-green-and-yellow cab breezed down the street, only to come to a practical standstill. Traffic. Omar and his cab still reeked of cigars. Ritz was furious. What was supposed to be a five-minute ride was going to take considerably longer.
Wilshire Boulevard was the brain center for those who worked behind the scenes in Hollywood, and it was always a mad dash to get to either side of it. So, it took twenty minutes to go three miles. And Omar’s friendly-cabdriver routine was getting stale. Omar thought he was schooling her during the entire drive. When he was not speaking about politics and world events, he was making terrible jokes.
“You are lucky that you don’t need the I-405. They call it the 405 because it takes four or five hours to maneuver!” Omar laughed.
Ritz wanted to scream. She had never met a living, breathing stereotype before. Omar was the star of his own minimovie, typecast as the funky cabdriver with the bad breath and the lame jokes. He was the joke!
The cab finally arrived. Omar screeched to a stop in front of the building. Ritz threw a $20 bill at him and exited the cab before Omar made a big production of opening her door for her. The last thing Ritz wanted was to be seen getting out of this cab.
Omar asked Ritz if she wanted her change.
“No!” she huffed, as she rushed to get into the building.
He threw the cab in drive and pushed on.
Ritz paused before entering the building. She wanted the breeze to hit her and knock some of that cab funk off her. A pack of tourists, about fifteen or so, stopped at the building’s entrance. Their handlers were obviously keeping them on a tight leash. They marveled at the building, forcing Ritz to take a longer look. She had a few minutes to take in the site. She had planned to get here super-early to do a little reconnaissance. She didn’t have time for that, but she did have a little time to appreciate her surroundings.
The Big Four headquarters was housed inside a beautiful neo-Gothic, thirty-eight-story building. Distinctive with its glazed, sparkling white terra-cotta tiles, the structure had two towers—east and west—connected by an open bridge at street level. The clock tower’s plaque read that the building was completed in 1925 and became home to the Big Four eighty years later. The edifice was mesmerizing.
The tour guide’s shrill voice snapped Ritz back to reality. “Let’s move along, people, we have lots to see.”
The lobby was slate gray and slick. Everything was marble or steel. The only color splash was the clump of network logos on display. Some logos were bigger than others, some were brighter. But somehow, there was a unified message: We are the Big Four. We are a team.
The tour guide stopped at the security desk, flashed a badge, and hustled the group along.
“The studios have collaborated to bring you great displays,” he said. “First we’re going to the wardrobe department, and later we’ll visit the special effects display.”
An older husband-and-wife pair lagged behind the tour group long enough to ask Ritz to take a picture.
“Sure,” she said, delighted to be recognized.
Ritz placed her arm around the wife and smiled broadly for the husband. “So, where are you guys from?”
“Iowa,” the husband huffed, while firmly placing the camera in Ritz’s hand. “I asked you to take a picture of me and my wife in front of the logos.”
“O-oh.” Ritz tried to play it off. “Not a problem. Say cheese.”
Just as she snapped, the eagle-eyed tour guide doubled back.
“Come along, folks,” he said.
The husband snatched the camera and thanked Ritz weakly. The wife mumbled to him, “Who would jump into a stranger’s vacation photo like that? These Angelinos are insane.”
The short, Puerto Rican security guard zeroed in on Ritz. She had an attitude and asked, “May I help you?”
“Yes, I have an eleven a.m. appointment with Meredith,” Ritz said, trying to ignore th
e attitude the guard was exuding.
“If you’re here with NAG, usually y’all come in on Wednesdays. Are you sure you’re scheduled for today?”
Ritz handed the guard her schedule. She scanned it and her telltale face said it all. She was impressed. And the funky attitude disappeared. The guard keyed the information into her tabletop keyboard. Ritz noticed her hot-pink fingernails, which were dazzling.
“You look familiar.”
“Really?” Ritz responded. No need to flush that out, there’d been too much negative press lately. “I get that a lot.”
The guard handed Ritz a badge. “You don’t have to put it on. Just flash it if someone asks for it. The sticky tape never gets out of your clothes.”
“Thank you for that.”
“Sure. Please have a seat. I’ll let them know that you’re here.”
The futuristic steel chair was as uncomfortable as it looked. Ritz cooled her heels for about ten minutes, then a striking, fortysomething black man approached. He was short, bald, with roundish glasses in front of the most gorgeous set of eyes Ritz had ever seen.
“Hi, we’re ready for you now,” he said in a rich baritone.
Ritz smiled to herself. What? No Jennifers! Once on the elevator, Ritz asked a few questions to break the ice.
“So, how long have you been here?” she said cheerfully.
“It feels like too long sometimes,” he sighed.
The elevator trip was short, just to the second floor. When the doors opened, the man walked quickly around the corner as if to get away from her. He walked in front of her and led her to a conference room.
“Please meet Ritz Harper,” he said to the others, almost as if he were an android.
The room was small, with a white marker board that was scribbled on, and a big glass table with four chairs. The network folks were sitting at the opposite end of the table. The three of them, the black guy, the white girl, and the white guy, huddled together like blades of grass. Ritz was alone at the other end, like the mushroom.
Clearly, the white guy was the leader of the pack. His name was Adam.
Ritz Harper Goes to Hollywood! Page 12