Is the Bitch Dead, Or What?

by Wendy Williams

  “That fucking bitch!”

  Ever since the day that Ritz Harper outed him on her nationally syndicated talk show, his life had not been the same. He had been dropped from his record label. That part he actually could have overcome. It was his real life— his childhood friends, who were distancing themselves; his mother, who had to face her church friends— that really hurt him. While his mom never said a word, Hardcore could see the pain and disappointment in her face.

  His mother had to endure a lot of disappointment at the hands of Hardcore— whose real name was Fred Samuels. He had been shot twice. He dropped out of high school when he was sixteen. He never went to class anyway. All he kept in his school notebooks were rhymes— pages and pages of rhymes. Hardcore didn't understand how a high school diploma was going to make him a millionaire. He wasn't working in a fast-food joint like some of the nerds in his neighborhood— mostly immigrants. Black kids didn't work at fast-food joints in Bed-Stuy. They made fast money on the streets.

  Hardcore loved the danger of selling weed and cocaine. He loved the nightlife and the camaraderie of his boys sharing their dreams and hustling until the wee hours of the morning. That also broke his mother's heart. But he didn't care then. He thought, At least I've never been locked up.

  And to his credit, Hardcore was never arrested, while most of his street hustling buddies were snatched up one by one. He considered himself smarter than they were. He always knew when Five-O was about to come and he managed to stash his stuff and never get caught.

  For some, going to jail was a badge of honor. Hardcore saw it only as being dumb and sloppy. And he was proud that he was able to avoid that hassle. He was also proud that he saved his money. He didn't buy a whip and put expensive rims on it. He didn't buy platinum and diamonds. He didn't go out and get grills or a whole lot of clothes. He saved his money.

  So when his break finally came, he wasn't impressed with the three-hundred-thousand-dollar contract. He didn't feel the need to blow it all on dumb stuff, because he had already disciplined himself to not want those things.

  Hardcore's break came when he was able to corner Charles Suitt, who was a vice president of A&R at the time at Universal Records. Charles was at a club scouting new artists, and Hardcore got him in the doorway as he was leaving. He spit a few bars of a rap he had created after the first time he was shot. Charles was impressed. He invited Hardcore up to perform for the bosses and he was signed on the spot.

  The head of urban music, Jean Briggs, pushed Hardcore's music until it was number one in the country, which was a lot for a gangster rapper. In the music business, success can come if you're talented. But more often than not, it comes because there is someone very powerful behind an artist pushing their music. And at the time, there was no more powerful person in music than Jean Briggs. She made it happen, and Hardcore was experiencing success he never imagined. He had enough money to buy a Mercedes and a mini mansion in a nice neighborhood in Bergen County, New Jersey. He had an indoor pool, a game room, and a theater room. He paid for it all with the millions he made off the sale of his first CD. He paid cash just in case.

  He made a nice friend, too, in Tracee, who was a record label executive. She was Jean's number two and became Hardcore's mentor. She helped school him on the game. But none of them imagined that it could all be taken down by the careless, insidious actions of one woman— Ritz Harper. In one afternoon, everything Hardcore had built was thrown into the abyss.

  Hardcore was obsessed with Ritz Harper. He had dreams about killing her, choking her, and laughing as she gasped for air. He had daydreams about pulling her down a long flight of concrete stairs by her feet as her head hit each and every step. He never considered himself a violent man, but there was something about the way Ritz Harper delighted in telling the world that he was the gay rapper she was talking about that made him furious.

  The worst part was that it wasn't true. Hardcore had befriended a young artist and invited him to stay with him. He took him under his wing and wanted to give him a chance to not make the same mistakes he made. Their friendship was close enough to be misconstrued. There were very few people Hardcore could trust. He couldn't hang with his boys from the old neighborhood anymore. He had outgrown them. He didn't care. But he never expected something so innocent to cost him his career. And for his feelings to be gutted and splayed for the world to see.

  Hardcore was furious at Ritz. And it wasn't just about him. He remembered how hard Tracee took it. Ritz was supposed to be her friend. But Ritz didn't even give Tracee a heads-up.

  “What kind of person is she?” Hardcore asked Tracee. “Does she have a soul? How can she not care about people?”

  “Yes, baby boy. She's just a little lost” was all Tracee would say. She was definitely disappointed in her friend. Then, when her bosses decided to drop Hardcore over it, it was the last straw for Tracee. She couldn't stay in an industry that didn't stick behind good people. And Hardcore was good people. Was.

  His thoughts of revenge consumed him. He wanted to get Ritz Harper. He wanted to shut her up for good. He reached out to a studio groupie, who he knew was desperate and would do just about anything to get near the recording industry. Hardcore promised Jacob a shot at producing, and he told him he would pay him a lot of money to take care of his Ritz Harper problem.

  When Jacob screwed up and didn't complete the job the first time, Hardcore was beside himself.

  “Either that bitch is a cat with nine lives or that mother- fucker I hired is retarded,” Hardcore said to himself. He told Jacob he better finish the job this time, or else.

  When Hardcore found out that not only did Jacob not finish the job, but he somehow managed to get himself killed, he was beside himself. Now what? Was there anything out there that could connect him to Jacob? Would someone be looking for a connection?

  38

  Two months later

  Jamie, who had been officially hired by the station and given a decent salary, was preparing her next move. After the drama died down over who shot Ritz Harper and after being held hostage twenty-four/seven under Ritz's rule where she daydreamed of doing violent Kill Bill types of things to Ritz, Jamie was ready for a change of scenery.

  It was time to move on.

  Jamie had learned a lot from Ritz while being tortured, and she even grew to respect Ritz's work ethic and accomplishments (which might have changed to out-and-out hate if she knew the truth about Ritz and Derek). Jamie learned that while she desired a higher salary, it was never going to be the amount of money she made that gave her the comfortable life she wanted, it would be the saving and investing of that money. Jamie started a “Kiss My Ass Fund,” something Ritz often said every woman should have.

  When Ritz finally stopped hounding and riding Jamie every evening at around eleven when there seemed to be no time for her to do anything for herself, Jaime would retreat to her room and read one of the many financial books that Ritz kept in her home office. For a little more than three weeks, Jaime was stuck reading books by David Bach, Jonathan Pond, Suze Orman, and Robert Kiyosaki. At first it was all she found to read, then it was the only thing she wanted to read. She would find herself reading the books into the early morning. It was like a light went on inside.

  She managed to put every bit of advice that the books had to offer to use. She opened an online bank account that paid a high APY. She called the human resources department at the radio station and enrolled in the company's 401(k). She opened a savings bonds account at treasury direct.com, and for the first time in her life she bought stock. She bought stock with a discount online broker, Share-builders.

  For some reason, the comments that Ritz spewed at her had less of an impact on her psyche. Jamie would smile because she was accomplishing her goal. She could endure anything because the bigger picture was right in front of her. She knew that Ritz didn't control her destiny, she did.

  With the confidence Jamie had built, she applied for a position that even she thought might be out of h
er league. But she thought, What do I have to lose? She had a degree in marketing, only to be bitten by the entertainment bug in her senior year. The job was an associate marketing analyst for Smith Barney, one of the largest investment houses in New York City. More than a month after she applied, she was called in for an interview, which she aced. After dealing with Ritz, there was no person on earth that could rattle her. Jamie had learned to multitask at the highest level. She had also learned all of the nasty, cutthroat moves she needed to not only survive but excel in the corporate world. Jamie held the offer package in her hand and thought to herself how the bane of her existence had given her priceless life lessons without knowing it. Jaime stuffed the envelope in her bag, took a deep breath, put a smile on her face, and pushed through the studio doors.

  She was buying her freedom. She was leaving the Ritz Harper Excursion for good. Jamie was starting a brand-new life.

  Ritz, who had been back in the studio for less than a month, didn't bother to look up and acknowledge Jamie when she walked in. Ritz was too preoccupied with getting a back-ordered Fendi bag. With the shooting thing and the killing thing and the dead aunt thing behind her, she was ready to get back to her other hobby— discount shopping.

  “Jamie, call the guest for my third hour and confirm the time,” Ritz barked. “I'm sick of these rappers thinking they can just do whatever the fuck they want!”

  “I'm on it,” said Jamie, knowing that this would be her last couple of weeks working in this gulag camp.

  “Get Chas on the phone and let him know that we should be able to hit both clubs tonight,” Ritz continued. “I should have three bottles of Moë t chilling at my table once I'm off the stage. At each club, that is. And don't forget to invite the new head of black music over at Universal. It's important that I have a connection with all these new artists.”

  “Okay,” Jamie said, but she didn't move immediately to get on it the way Ritz expected. So Ritz looked up from what she was doing, looking puzzled. Jamie stood before her confidently.

  “Ritz, I need to speak with you at the end of the show,” said Jamie, who knew that Ritz never would engage in any conversation that didn't pertain to her before she went on the air.

  Ritz nodded an okay. Then she started looking in her purse for her favorite lipstick, when all of a sudden the most irritating case of heartburn came over her. Ritz knew that she needed to stay still or her pink office/studio would be splattered with a different kind of animal print.

  Jamie was surprised that Ritz didn't give her a smart remark. So she simply turned and began to fulfill Ritz's many orders.

  “How much time before we go on, Aaron?” asked Ritz, using one hand to brace herself as she slowly stood up.

  “We have about ten minutes,” he said. Aaron shrugged his shoulders, amazed that Ritz was such a damn diva that she couldn't look at her fifteen-thousand-dollar watch to see the time for herself.

  I guess that thing doesn't tell time, Aaron thought. Too many diamonds.

  Aaron's patience was wearing thin, too. He was her biggest fan, but since Ritz came back, life had been hell for him, too. She was just a bitch. There was no comedy anymore. Anytime there would be a remote hint of fun, Ritz would go on about how she “almost died and nothing is fucking funny!” That was getting a little tired for Aaron— and everyone else.

  Nothing was fun about working there anymore. His crush on Jamie had waned, and she was even more standoffish after she was dumped by Derek. Chas wasn't around as much, and when he was, he didn't seem to be totally into it. So what was once a fun career was now just a job for Aaron.

  Aaron was jarred out of his dark thoughts by Ritz, who bolted out of the studio. She ran to the bathroom, kicked open the last stall, and barely made it to the toilet seat, where her stomach flipped inside out. All of its contents landed in and around the toilet.

  Ritz hovered over the seat, still feeling queasy. She knew she didn't have much time. She just hoped she had some gum in her purse. Ritz got out of the stall, ran some cold water over a paper towel, and wiped the back of her neck, her forehead, and her mouth.

  “Shit! I can't be sick!” she said to herself. “I have too fucking much to do.”

  She'd been going at a thousand miles an hour since she came back, not going to sleep until three in the morning most nights. She needed to slow down.

  As she gingerly walked back to the studio, she bumped into Chas in the hallway on his way to the studio.

  “Hey, Chas,” Ritz said. “Listen, I'm not going to be able to make both of those appearances tonight. Maybe I can do just one.”

  “Hold on, Miss Diva!” said Chas, very annoyed. “I put my word out at the clubs that you would be there. I can't have you not show up!”

  “Look, I need to slow down. I feel like shit,” she said. “I've been going nonstop since I got back. You didn't just almost die, Chas, it was me! Can I get a little compassion?”

  Chas walked ahead of her and opened the door. As she passed by, he rolled his eyes and gave her the middle finger behind her back. But while his middle finger was still waving in the air, Ritz turned quickly. She saw it, but she wouldn't be able to acknowledge the insubordination, as she had to hurry back to the bathroom to toss her cookies again.

  “One minute before we go on!” Aaron yelled out.

  Ritz would make it back. The show must go on. Ritz wouldn't even hint at an illness when she got back to the studio. She just did her show and did it well, as she always did.

  39

  Seven months later

  The last time Ritz Harper was in a hospital she was clinging to life, riddled with bullets. She didn't even visit the hospital during her aunt's last days, she hated it so much. Ritz hated the smell, she hated the nurses, she hated the whole scene. Sure, she got star treatment, the special private room with all of the amenities. But it was still a hospital.

  This occasion, however, made it bearable.

  Ritz was there doing something she never thought she would ever do— have a baby. She delivered in a room by herself, just as she wanted. There was only her doctor, a nurse, and an anesthesiologist. Yes, she was having an epidural. All of the pushing and hollering and that natural childbirth shit is for the birds, she thought. I want this baby to slide out, pain free. But even with the epidural, Ritz swore it felt like she was pushing an Escalade through her coochie. And she wasn't sure, but she thought she pushed so hard that she even shit on the delivery table.

  But all of those thoughts were erased like amnesia, because all Ritz could remember before she passed out was the doctor saying, “You did great! It's a girl!”

  Ritz woke up in her private room. A nurse came in, holding a little bundle in a blanket, talking about feeding time. Ritz had not planned on breastfeeding, not with her implants just getting settled after having one of them replaced following the shooting. It was bad enough that she had to mess up her figure for a few months, and God knows how long it would take before she'd be back to her diva shape. She also knew that a little nip and tuck would be in order after she fully recovered.

  “Whatever God didn't do, I know some doctor will fix,” she said to herself, knowing she would have at the very least a tummy tuck, a butt lift, and some liposuction around her thighs.

  The nurse had no expression as she handed Ritz her baby.

  “The doctor will be in in a moment to speak with you,” said the nurse solemnly before leaving the room.

  Ritz looked puzzled. She held her baby and a serene sense of joy washed over her. Ritz was surprised. She didn't know she would feel this way. Unconditional love? Is this what that feels like? Ritz realized that she had never experienced this before in her entire life.

  Ritz was alone. Derek wanted to be around. He wanted to be a father, but Ritz couldn't see herself with him. He was a drug dealer, after all. And young, too young. She had decided she would raise this baby herself. She would be there for her little girl, the way her mother was not.

  “I will never leave you,” Rit
z said, pulling back the blanket to get a good look at her baby. It was the first time Ritz had really gotten to see her daughter. She stared into a face that, less than an hour into this world, had a striking form. Ritz was looking into a mirror when she looked into the face of her baby girl, who had the same pretty, smooth complexion, a few shades lighter. The little girl looked to have the beginnings of the same deep dimples that Ritz had.

  Ritz saw herself for perhaps the first time in her life. She saw herself in a way she never expected. There was an innocence in this baby that Ritz could hardly identify with, but it seemed to crack open a window inside of Ritz. It began to melt that solid-ice-cold heart Ritz had developed over the years. Ritz knew for the first time that she never knew love until this day.

  She was madly, wildly in love with her baby.

  40

  Ritchie tucked the address into his jacket pocket. He gave himself one final once-over before leaving the house. He wanted to look perfect, and he did. He was in his early sixties, but he didn't have a single wrinkle. His dark, chocolate complexion was smooth and strong. His mustache was salt-and-pepper and his hair, which he kept real low, was a beautiful silver. The contrast of the white hair and the dark skin made him even more handsome.

  In his day, and even this day, he was the kind of man who would turn heads. But there was only one woman he had his sights on— his daughter.

  He hadn't seen her since she was a baby. Ritchie didn't have many regrets in his life. He considered himself a good citizen. He had a beautiful wife, a great son of whom he was very proud. He was fairly successful— had the house, a nice car, and all the trappings of someone who lives well.