Is the Bitch Dead, Or What?

by Wendy Williams

  “You are the foulest bitch in the world. Didn't you already get shot once? You must care more about your fucking career than you do about your life, bitch. Keep my wife's name out of your mouth! If I hear you talking about me or mine again, I'm going to fuck you up!”

  With that, Phaze One hung up. Ritz was not deterred or afraid. In fact, she was defiant.

  “I'm looking here at Phaze One's wife's medical report. It looks as if the cancer has spread. I am going to ask the audience to say a prayer for Mrs. Phaze One. She's going to need lots of it. We're going to a break, but the phone lines are open. I want to hear from you.”

  The threat against Ritz and Ritz's bold disclosure about Phaze One's wife's cancer made national headlines. There was even talk of a possible arrest of Phaze One for the threat he made on the air. On the heels of the shooting of Ritz Harper, any threat was to be taken seriously.

  Ritz didn't stop with that. On Tuesday, she took it up a notch. She announced the firing of a talk-show host. The problem was that the host had no idea she was being fired. Ritz got the memo from a secretary of one of the bosses at the network, spelling it out. The secretary was an avid listener and a rabid fan, and she wanted to do anything to help Ritz. Ritz called the talk-show host live on the air and informed her of the firing. It caught the talk-show host completely off guard. She was embarrassed and she, too, ended up hanging up on Ritz— but not before Ritz humiliated her and made her cry. It was great radio. Ritz was so happy to be back on the air.

  Ritz didn't have any guests that first week. She wanted to be just her reconnecting with her audience. She wanted them to feel what they had missed the couple of months she was out of commission. But she was back. By Friday, it was official. Ritz Harper was the queen of the airwaves. When she was one hundred percent, she would tackle television next. She heard Delilah Summers was going to have her own show on CNN in the fall. Ritz had to top that.

  Before she could get ready for that next move, though, she got that call in the wee hours of the morning from her Uncle Cecil. Ritz was sad about her aunt's passing, but she was also mad.

  Just when I get back on my feet, something comes along and tries to knock me off, she thought.

  Ritz sat in that first pew with a stone face. Her Uncle Cecil sat beside her, sobbing uncontrollably. She put her arm around him. Aunt Maddie might have preferred a church funeral. But Ritz was handling everything and she didn't belong to a church. She secured the Frank E. Campbell Funeral Home. Cuban salsa singer and megastar Celia Cruz had had her funeral there a couple of years back.

  It was a storied place, known for catering to the stars. The Frank E. Campbell Funeral Home held the wake of actor Montgomery Clift back in 1966, and more than thirty-five years later, it was the viewing place of singer Aaliyah, who died tragically in a plane crash before she was able to see her twenty-third birthday.

  Frank E. Campbell, which was located in the upscale Upper East Side at Madison Avenue and Eighty-first Street, held the funeral of Luther Vandross as well as The Notorious

  B.I.G. Ritz didn't attend either of those funerals, but she stood outside with the crowd that day. It was quite a scene. Her aunt may not have been a star or a celebrity, but Ritz was. And this funeral was as much about Ritz as it was for Aunt Maddie. Ritz needed to show her strength and her courage in the face of adversity. She was going to emerge victorious.

  The beautiful, wood-laced first-floor chapel was filled to capacity with Ritz's fans, station personnel, acquaintances— sycophants of Ritz— and the news and entertainment folks. There were also several plainclothes police officers at the funeral home, including Detective Tom Pelov. He had been keeping a low profile but was very much on the case. It was stumping him, with very few leads. But he was determined to find some clues and capture the person or persons who tried to kill Ritz Harper. He was certain they would strike again.

  Derek was there, wearing dark shades, dark khakis, and a simple blue dress shirt. He had waited outside on East Eighty-first, waiting for everyone who knew him to go into the funeral home. He didn't want to see Jamie. He was there for Ritz. He wanted to give his condolences. He took a seat in one of the last pews, near the door. About twenty rows in front of Derek was Tracee. She had already delayed her plans to go back to Orlando. But after finding out about Aunt Maddie, she was definitely sticking around. Maybe Ritz would reach out to her. At the very least, she would be there for Uncle Cecil. Tracee had visited Aunt Maddie just two days before she died. Aunt Maddie was very weak, but they got to really talk. Tracee confided in Aunt Maddie about her family and about her walk with God. She read some scripture and they talked about how Tracee had given her life over to the Lord. Aunt Maddie had never made that commitment and feared it was too late. Tracee told her it was never too late. She grabbed up Uncle Cecil and the three of them prayed, and Aunt Maddie, who had been baptized when she was twelve but never really got into church much, accepted Jesus Christ as her savior.

  Tracee loved Aunt Maddie as if she were her own aunt. It was her pleasure to foot the bill for their hotel and hospital stay— even though that became another fight with Ritz, who insisted on paying her back every cent.

  Tracee sat there, tears streaming down her face, heart heavy. Randolph Jordan sat next to Tracee, holding her hand. Randolph was just getting to know the Robinsons and really liked the relationship between the two. He also was very fond of Aunt Maddie's strength, courage, and brutal honesty. He was looking forward to getting to know his new family a whole lot better. But now he wouldn't have that chance. He squeezed Tracee's hand gently, letting her know he was right there.

  Jacob Reese sat in the middle of a pew in the middle of the chapel. He wanted to blend in. He knew he wouldn't get another shot at Ritz today. But he wanted to get a good look at her. He wanted to see her up close. He wanted to remember her the way she was before he killed her. This time, for good.

  Ritz stood tall at the door of the funeral home, flanked by armed undercover cops. Her uncle was at her right side, trying to be strong. People came by and wished her well.

  Tracee and Randolph gave Uncle Cecil a big hug. Tracee didn't want to let go of Uncle Cecil as the two cried with their heads together for several minutes. Ritz rolled her eyes so that no one could see her. She knew Tracee was sincere, but she was jealous of the closeness Tracee had with her family. While Tracee and Uncle Cecil had their moment, Ritz tried not to make eye contact with Randolph, who stood off to the side, giving them their space. He wanted to say so much to Ritz. He had these visions of her coming to his parents' house and meeting their father. He had plans of being the brother she never had. But Ritz didn't look like she was open to any of it. Randolph was going to respect that. Tracee said Ritz would come around when she was ready. He would wait for that time to come. In the meantime, he was there. He didn't say a word, but he let his presence be felt.

  A teary-eyed Tracee came up for air, still holding Uncle Cecil's hand. She looked at Ritz and gave her a big hug, too. Ritz returned it, but it was fake, complete with a dismissive pat on Tracee's back. Ritz would keep up appearances and wouldn't make a scene, but Tracee wasn't having it. She had so much to say to Ritz but knew that this wasn't the right place or the right time.

  “We need to talk,” Tracee said. “And we will.”

  Ritz gave her a phony smile and nodded. Tracee and Randolph left. The burial would be in Virginia. Uncle Cecil decided he wanted his wife home, buried next to her own sister and mother. He would have a private burial with a few of Madalyn's friends down there.

  Derek was one of the last people to come through the line. Ritz smiled when she saw him. She didn't expect to see him. It was a pleasant surprise. He shook Uncle Cecil's hand and said he was sorry for his loss.

  He was about to say the same to Ritz, who leaned over and whispered in his ear, “I want to see you tonight. Come over around nine.”

  Derek didn't respond. Should he go over? He wanted to see her, too. He had been wanting to see her, too, but he was too cool
to ever show that. Derek almost didn't show up, but it was the best excuse he would ever have for seeing Ritz again.

  Jacob Reese was a few people behind Derek, who left the funeral home to take care of some business before hooking up with Ritz later in the evening.

  He walked up to Uncle Cecil and gave his condolences, and then he hugged Ritz as if he knew her. It was a strange hug, and Ritz felt it. She gave him a fake smile and a thank-you. But she couldn't shake the strange, creepy vibe she had gotten from that man.

  Who is he? she thought. A fan?

  Detective Pelov noticed something, too. He decided to discreetly follow him and find out exactly who he was.

  34

  Derek called when he got to the gate.

  “It's me,” he said. “Jamie's not there, is she?”

  He had to ask. While he didn't think Ritz would invite him over with Jamie staying with her, he couldn't assume. Ritz was a wild bitch; she might get off on seeing Jamie hurt. It was sick, but that was part of what he loved about Ritz— she was a cold, ruthless bitch who didn't give a fuck. But there was the other side that made her even more intriguing. The way they fucked that night, he could not shake it. He couldn't forget it. He wanted her again and again and again. Just thinking about that night made his dick hard.

  “Of course she's not here! I gave her the night off. I told her I had a lot on my mind with my aunt's funeral and I wanted to be alone,” said Ritz, sounding a little insulted.

  “I had to know because when I get there I'm going to fuck your brains out and I don't want any distractions,” he said.

  Ritz's clit jumped and she hung up the phone.

  “Sir, you can go up.” The guard handed Derek back his ID, which passed the police check.

  Derek drove up the winding road to Ritz's house, his palms sweaty on the wheel. He didn't know why he was so nervous. He chalked it up to anticipation. It was months since they were last together— before the shooting. He had wanted to see her after she was shot but couldn't justify it to Jamie or himself.

  “I was nothing more than a lay,” he said to himself. “I don't matter to Ritz Harper.”

  But apparently he did. At least a little. There was a sense of urgency about Ritz's request to see him and to do it at her aunt's funeral. Derek cleared his evening schedule, took care of all his business, and made sure he was there before nine.

  He pulled into the circular drive and parked around back so that his Jeep wasn't visible from the street. He walked up the drive and rang her doorbell. It was like she was waiting at the door for him the whole time. She opened the door immediately, wearing a lavender silk Victoria's Secret robe and nothing else. Her double Ds were spilling out.

  Ritz practically pulled Derek inside the door, closed it behind him, and started kissing him. He eagerly kissed her back, as he started taking off his clothes. He lifted her up and slammed her against the wall opposite the door. He pulled down his pants and didn't get his shirt off all the way. But he fucked her right there in the foyer. It was a hard, violent, passionate, mindless fuck that had both of them exploding in ecstasy at the same time.

  There were no words exchanged, no foreplay, and no condom.

  35

  Three days before the funeral, Jacob Reese parked on Main Street just outside of Llewellyn, the gated community where Ritz Harper lived. He noticed the unmarked police car at the gate and the officer checking everyone going into the well-to-do community. He cased the area for three hours. He didn't want to stick around too long. Jacob didn't want to be noticed. He took notes.

  The next day, he took the Midtown Direct New Jersey Transit train from Penn Station out to the area early. He got off at the Main Street in Orange exit and walked the mile and change up the hill to West Orange. It was better on foot, to get a sense of the neighborhood and to find vulnerable areas where he could get into this place and take care of business. Every day, Jacob was getting more and more desperate. He had spent a lot of money in anticipation of collecting his quarter-of-a-million-dollar bounty for killing Ritz Harper. Since the bitch was still alive, he was not only in debt, he was on the brink of homelessness and hunger.

  Before he had set out to kill her the first time, he didn't really care about Ritz Harper. He didn't know her, rarely listened to her. She was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Because she lived, it now became personal for Jacob. He hated her for living. He hated her for making his life miserable. He blamed her for all of his troubles. Ritz Harper had to die for real this time. His plan had to be foolproof. He watched four officers who took shifts watching the community. There were also four guards who sat at a booth near the gate.

  There has to be a back way— there has to be a way into this fortress, Jacob thought.

  He walked around the grounds, and sure enough there was a way into Llewellyn— over the fence on the back end of the grounds. No one was patrolling this area. Where there is a will, there is a way. It wasn't barbed wire, it was just very high and awkward iron fencing. But it wasn't too hard for Jacob to get in.

  Jacob noticed that at night there was a car that patrolled inside the grounds. That, too, was new because of resident Ritz Harper. But the car didn't start patrolling until after midnight. Jacob had time.

  Ritz's exact address was given to Jacob by the person who had hired him to kill Ritz. He waited until the sun went down to scale the fence. People didn't just stroll around Llewellyn.

  You either lived there or you were there to commit a crime. Pedestrians stood out in this community. The only people on the streets were folks with baby strollers or dogs, and everyone knew everyone. A strange face— even one as nondescript as Jacob's— would definitely be noticed and acted upon. Jacob had to stay out of sight.

  He found Ritz's street with relative ease. He hid in her bushes on the back side of her grounds.

  “Damn, this bitch is living very well,” Jacob said to himself. “I'm living like a dog and she's got a fucking three-car garage. And look at the size of this house— it's a fucking mansion!”

  He slinked around to the garage area to see if there was an entrance he could gain without being noticed. He was certain she had an alarm, but would it be on if she was home? He noticed a light on the third floor.

  “That must be her bedroom,” he said.

  The garage door opened and Jacob ducked into the brush. A Jeep came out of one of the spaces; he could see a beautiful shiny Aston Martin parked in the garage, too. He squinted to get a glimpse of the person driving the Jeep. It was a woman. And she looked familiar. Jacob expected someone to be staying with Ritz. He actually expected there to be surveillance of her home by police. Maybe there was. He wasn't going to the front of the property; it was too risky. Whatever he did, it had to be from the back.

  He noticed that the garage door took about a minute to close completely; perhaps he could slide under the next time it opened. Just then he spotted a window on the second floor. Maybe it was open. He would climb up the side of the house and try it. Before he was able to do it, another Jeep pulled into the driveway. It parked just outside the garage door. Jacob would have to wait to make his move.

  36

  Detective Pelov left his car in the parking area at the tennis courts near the front of the gate. It was dark and the gas lighting provided little illumination.

  It must be nice living in such a great neighborhood that you don't have to worry about lighting and crime, he thought. Detective Pelov rarely found himself in these quaint little hamlets with their gaslights and no sidewalks. Very few crimes happened in places like this. He hoped that there would no crime tonight, either. But his senses were telling him that there was going to be a problem.

  He walked for what seemed like forever to Ritz's house. There didn't seem to be much activity, which he was relieved about. As he was approaching the front, headlights headed up the driveway. He ducked behind some evergreens in the front of her home. It was a Jeep. He jotted down the license plate number to check later.

  After
the Jeep pulled out, he thought he heard some rustling around the back of the house.

  Pelov unhooked the snap on his holster and removed the safety on his Glock. He tiptoed down the driveway, staying close to the house. Ritz had that dumb gas lighting around her home. She wanted to keep with the theme of the neighborhood, but Pelov could barely see anything in the dim, worse-than-candlelight glow.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of a figure. It was a man, attempting to scale the side of Ritz's house, climbing a trellis.

  “Freeze!” Pelov said, grabbing his Glock with both hands. “Police!”

  Jacob lost his footing as he reached for his own gun. As he fumbled for it, Detective Pelov didn't wait. He released three shots, center mass. Jacob hit the ground, headfirst with a sickening thud. If the bullets didn't kill him— and they certainly did— the fall would have.

  Detetive Pelov took out his cell and called the front gate, requesting the office to come to the crime scene. He also called headquarters.

  “I think we got our killer,” he told his captain. “This case is finally over.”

  37

  Hardcore sat in one of the plush leather recliners in his theater room in the dark. His home was the only thing left from his failed career; he'd paid for it in cash. But with twenty-one thousand in taxes due each year (and rising), he would have to hustle to cover it. He dreamed of a comeback, but nobody wanted a hardcore gangster rapper who was rumored to be gay.

  In rap, particularly the brand of rap that Hardcore did, which was the 50 Cent, Shyne, C-Murder kind of rap, you couldn't even have a hint of gayness. Not only was it not accepted, it could get you hurt. It was right up there with being a gay reggae star (even though there were one or two who definitely were).

  You could be a drug dealer, you could be a wife beater, you could be a rapist, you could even be a murderer and have a successful rap career. But gay? That was a kiss of death. And while there were a few rappers who were rumored to have been gay— they were softcore rappers who had pop, crossover hits and did family-friendly movies. And those were whispers. What Ritz Harper did to Hardcore was put him on blast.