“Core, I have got to say, you have come a long way! I’m proud of you.”
“Thanks, Tracee, for just being real with me all the time.”
“No problem!” Tracee said. “You know how I do.” They both laughed, and Hardcore gave Tracee a big hug and thanked her again.
Tracee and Hardcore walked to the elevator laughing at the condition of the radio station they just left. As the elevator door opened, Hardcore grabbed Tracee’s hand.
“Not so fast,” he said. “I have a gift for you.”
He reached into his bag and pulled out a box. Tracee was a little surprised. Most of these artists spent their money on dumb stuff like weed or liquor or on impressing their entourage. And when it came to women, if they weren’t stripping or giving head, they wouldn’t be getting a dime. But here he was giving her a box.
“Open it!” he said like an excited kid. “It’s not much. I just want you to know how much I appreciate everything you’ve done for me.”
Tracee opened the card first. It simply read: “Thank you! Christopher Harris.” Then Tracee opened the box to find a state-of-the-art Nike heart monitor and MP3 player all in one. It was something she would have never thought to get herself, and she was impressed at how well Christopher had listened to her. She couldn’t remember them ever really talking about her love of working out but she must have.
“Thank you, Core,” Tracee said. “Thank you so much! I really do need this.”
“Cool!” he said. “Glad you like it. I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Have a great night’s sleep.”
“You, too!” Tracee said as she got into the elevator.
“He’s a good guy,” Tracee thought. “Finally, one of these artists might actually make it. I think Hardcore’s going places.”
But thanks to Ritz Harper, the only place Hardcore was going was down in flames.
A rapper can be a criminal, a crackhead, a drug dealer, even a murderer, but the one thing that can absolutely kill a rap career is being outed as gay. That was hard to overcome.
ON THE AIR
“From what I hear . . . Hardcore likes it hard in the core,” Ritz said during the final hour of the show. She sometimes saved some of her juiciest tidbits until the end, forcing her audience through the entire five hours to get to the real dirt.
“Okay? To put it more plainly—the only thing hard about Hardcore is the men he enjoys. Shut up!”
Aaron played the sound effect of a gay man howling “Ooooooh, how you doin’?!” on cue, and everyone in the studio let out a collective Ooooooh!
“No, Ritz, nooooooo!” Tracee screamed her head off in her office, where she was listening to the interview. “Oh, shit! Oh, shit! Shit! Shit!”
This was rap. Much of Hardcore’s success came because he had, until this point, lived up to his name. He was tough. And he carried himself that way. He dared someone to test him and no one did. No one except Ritz Harper.
“Word on the street has it that Hardcore only gets really hardcore when around some buff beefcake in a special club,” Ritz continued like a pit bull clamped down on a piece of meat. “And word has it he’s not the pitcher, but the catcher . . . if you know what I mean.”
Tracee had never once asked Ritz not to go there with one of her artists. She would never get in the way of her girl doing her thing. Ritz never even connected the dots she was drawing back to her friend—never put two and two together that ruining Hardcore might somehow affect Tracee, too. Ritz was in a trance when she was on the air. She was another person in another place. Tracee didn’t like the on-air Ritz very much. But she understood her and even respected her gangster—her desire to expose the liars, the cheats, the crooks, the bullshitters.
Tracee loved her off-air friend to pieces. But as she sat in her big chair, behind her big desk in her big corner office, she began to contemplate her career. Her role in the music business was solely to cover up and appease. She was not just babysitting, she was enabling, and she wasn’t making a difference. At least Ritz thought she was providing a public service. And in many ways she was—uncovering the truth (albeit in a sordid way).
Following Ritz’s bomb drop, Hardcore’s third CD barely reached gold, and he was officially done. So was Tracee, but it took a few more incidents to seal it for her.
One evening she was at an appearance with one of her female rap artists at Club New York on the West Side. Tracee didn’t remember how or why, but there was something about a shoe being stepped on and some finger-pointing that led to some weave-pulling. Before she knew it, she was in the middle of a melee, looking for an exit, while pulling her artist by the arm. The cops came and Tracee found herself with a split lip; her artist had a black eye. And Tracee had had enough.
“I can’t do this shit anymore!” Tracee said to no one in particular.
The cops asked her if she wanted to press charges. But Tracee made a decision right then that all she wanted was out. She wouldn’t press charges, she would press on. She had had enough. Enough of the weed-filled limo rides to appearances and award shows. Enough watching the overindulgence in the E-pills, the coke and the gratuitous sex. Enough of the groupies and the fear of rape charges. Enough of getting grown people to be responsible enough to show up for booked dates like for the Regis & Kelly show (which on more than one occasion one of her artists completely blew off). Enough watching these same grown people blow fortunes on jewelry and drugs, cars and toys—things that they couldn’t even sell if they got in a bind and needed money. Tracee was dead tired of the Mr.-Bojangles-Nigga-Samboing-Stepin-Fetchit-pimps-and-hos cartoon that rap music—hell, all music—had become and how more and more young girls preferred to be video hos than video producers, writers, and teachers.
Tracee was tired of the industry and her “bosses.” They had put her in charge of the “black music” division, but these days no one could define what black music was.
“What in the hell is ‘black’ music?” she asked her boss one day. “I mean, really, Jim. What is black music?!”
“You know, Tracee, urban music—R&B, rap, hip-hop. Black music.”
Tracee didn’t want to go down that road with him. What was the purpose? He wouldn’t understand. Or perhaps he understood completely, which was an even scarier thought for Tracee. At least if he was ignorant she could feel somewhat okay about working there.
The notion that there needed to be a black music division was one of the most racist things Tracee could imagine. Overwhelmingly more whites bought hip-hop and rap. In fact, about seventy percent of rap music was bought by whites.
“How is that black music?” Tracee thought. “If they depended on blacks to buy rap, there wouldn’t be any sales— with all of the bootlegging going on. Blacks will bootleg a CD in a minute. They must be kidding.”
What Tracee found out was that having a black music division gave the record companies an excuse to spend less money on promotions, contracts, and other perks than on rock and country. It was a way to keep “those niggas” in their place. While R&B and rap artists like Usher and Nelly outsold both rock and country, both got the tail end of the resources. Hip-hop was influencing an entire culture and an entire generation, but it was getting the short end of the stick in terms of expanding the playing field and developing new artists.
Black music?
It wasn’t black music when the Beatles stole their style from Little Richard. It wasn’t black music when Tina Turner taught Mick Jagger how to dance and flow. It wasn’t black music when Elvis borrowed Chuck Berry’s entire act. It was innovative. It was historic. It was music. Janet Jackson, black music. Britney Spears, who does a poor imitation of Janet Jackson, pop star.
Tracee’s soul was tired. Soul? She hadn’t contemplated that in quite some time. But it was her soul that ached every time it had to witness something crazy, and everything seemed to be getting crazier. Her soul. She needed to find it. And when she did, it needed to be replenished.
She decided for the first time since she was a little girl
when her grandmother used to make her say her prayers on the side of the bed every night that she would pray about the situation. It was all uncharted territory but she had nothing to lose. She rediscovered church and joined Harlem’s Faith Baptist and started finding some real answers. Tracee even dragged Ritz there one Sunday, and she seemed to enjoy it. That was a breakthrough.
Tracee kept praying and finally an answer came. A decision came down that an executive under her needed to be fired. Tracee wondered why it had to be someone from the black music department. She received a memo stating that her department was over budget and someone had to go and that they would be well taken care of. She learned that as an executive with more than five years in the company, that person would receive what was called a golden parachute. She decided that that someone should be her. She walked away from her quarter-of-a-million-dollar-a-year job and floated away in her platinum parachute that netted her three and a half million, before taxes.
“If I can’t live off of that and make it work for me, I’m a damn fool,” she said to herself.
Tracee was always good with her money. She was smart enough to buy a loft in the SoHo area in the 1980s when she first got her gig at Uni-Global. The real estate market was down then, and she got an apartment for wonderful price. As she started making more money, she was able to pay it off. Living in the city, she didn’t waste money on fancy cars. (She did break down and buy that Lexus right before she left for Florida.) She was well invested in money markets, mutual funds, she had a stock account with Merrill Lynch filled with stocks like Exxon, GE, a concrete stock, and Martha Stewart. (This one turned out to be a real winner. She only bought it because she admired the way Martha did business.) With the platinum parachute, Tracee was set for life.
She picked up and moved to a small town outside of Orlando, Florida, where she had hoped to find some peace and serenity—much needed after the years spent in the music business. She would go back to New York every now and then to check out her friends and get a little dose of the fast lane—Broadway plays, all-night restaurants, and movie premieres.
17
It was a rare evening when Ritz found herself without anything to do. She didn’t have any appearances. There were no interviews. No brainstorming sessions with Chas, who had become increasingly busy over the last few months.
Ritz didn’t quite know what to do with herself. Her life had changed dramatically. In just a year she had gone from being a fairly successful disc jockey, with a middle- to upper-middle-class lifestyle, to queen of the radio, syndicated around the country, with a very healthy bank account. She had endorsements, which included a Denali she didn’t drive that much, despite contract stipulations, because Chas said she had an image to keep up and a Denali was a little low-rent and just didn’t fit that image.
Ritz bought the car of her dreams and the house of her dreams—moving from her upscale Jersey City condo to a gated community. She had every material thing she ever imagined. Her mother would be proud. But Ritz hadn’t had real fun for more than a year. She hadn’t had a real gut-wrenching belly laugh since Tracee moved. And she hadn’t had a really good fuck since Kevin. Boy did she miss his strong, confident hands, his talented tongue, and his abnormally thick member. He knew exactly how to use it. But she also missed the safety and security he brought.
Ritz never considered them serious. But he was steady. When she called, he was always there. She never imagined that he would grow tired of the arrangement and want more—something she simply could not give.
“I understand you have a career, but I want a woman— my woman—to put me first, Ritz,” Kevin said one evening after he’d invited her to go away with him to Bermuda and she’d turned him down. “It’s all about your career, Ritz, and all about you. I need more.”
Ritz had had nothing to say. He was right. She was on a mission, and at this point in her life she was not going to let anything or anybody—not even a good man and a good lay— get in the way of that.
As she reclined on her six-hundred-thread-count Egyptian sheets, fantasizing about one of the last times she and Kevin were together, Ritz wondered if she had made a mistake.
“No, no, girl, don’t go there,” she said to herself. “That’s just your coochie talking.”
It wasn’t just talking, it was yelling ghetto-style as Ritz moved her hand over her smooth, chocolaty belly down to her perfectly manicured thatch. She let her middle finger explore between her lips and dip into the hot wetness just below. Ritz let out a light moan. She imagined Kevin sliding in bed behind her, pressing his thick mass lightly into the small of her back and inching down slowly to the opening between her legs. She imagined one of his hands on top of hers, guiding her to all of the secret places that only he seemed to know about. His other hand pinched her nipple lightly. His tongue found the back of her neck and was making its way to her ear. Ritz was writhing in her bed in rapt ecstasy. Kevin had entered her from behind, slipping in just the tip of his member, slowly driving in more and more, faster and faster.
Ritz’s hands worked furiously as she was about to explode—
Ring! RIIIIINGGGGGG!
“What the fuck!”
It took Ritz a full minute to realize that the ringing was coming from her phone. It was the guard at the front gate telling her she had a visitor. It took her another thirty seconds to remember that she had called an emergency twenty-four-hour electrician she found in the Yellow Pages. The power in her Jacuzzi was out. Ritz had planned to take a nice long bath this weekend.
She quickly washed her hands in warm vanilla salts, put on her robe and slippers, tried to straighten her hair, and went downstairs to let in the electrician. When she opened the door, she not only let in the electrician, she let in a whole lotta electricity, too. Maybe she was just incredibly horny, or maybe . . .
“Good evening,” said the electrician, who introduced himself as Randolph. “Show me where the problem is.”
It was too tempting to tell him where the real problem was. So Ritz stood at the door, not saying a word.
“Um, ma’am? It’s a little chilly out here. And it costs a lot to heat outside your home.”
“Sorry,” said Ritz, still a little disoriented. “Come in.”
Randolph Jordan had a Morris Chestnut–like smile and deep mocha dimples. He was about six-two and had a linebacker’s build. He was neatly dressed in khakis, a Polo turtle-neck, and a Polo jacket with chocolate brown Timberlands. He looked to be in his mid-thirties—it was hard to tell—he was in such great shape, but he could be a little older. After all, forty was the new twenty-five.
Ritz, with her aching loins, had her charm meter up to about a nine and three-quarters out of a possible ten.
“Can I get you something to drink?” Ritz cooed. “Some wine, perhaps?”
“I don’t drink, thank you. I’m fine.”
You sure are!
“Well, um, how long do you think it will take to fix my hot tub?” Ritz asked. “I just moved in and I don’t know what could be wrong with this thing. I’ve only used it once. I came home today, looking forward to putting on my iPod, lighting some candles, sprinkling in some Aveda salts, and relaxing in the tub. I set the timer to have the water prepared by nine, and nothing happened.”
“Don’t worry, we’ll have you in your bath in no time,” he said.
I can only hope!
Ritz sat on the edge of the Jacuzzi as Randolph worked from the access panel on the side of the tub. She leaned over, allowing her robe to open slightly, exposing the fullness of her breasts.
“Can you hand me my wire cutter?” he said, completely ignoring the peep show. “It’s next to the screwdriver.”
Ritz got the wire cutter, and as she handed it to him she allowed her bare thigh to brush against his hand. She thought she saw him blush.
“Okay, I think it’s fixed,” he said. “Let’s test it out.”
He flipped a switch and the bluish LED lights came to life. It was ten-thirty. He set the timer
for ten-thirty-one. After one minute the tub was activated. The water, programmed to be exactly 78 degrees, came out of the spout.
“You’re in business,” he said.
“Excellent!” Ritz said. “Are you sure I can’t get you anything?”
“Um, no.” Randolph seemed to pause for a bit. “Thank you, again. If you could just sign this work order I’ll leave you to your bath.”
“Do you have to go?” Ritz said. She hadn’t been this bold since . . . Actually, Ritz had never been so bold. She always waited for the man to make the first move. She felt more in control that way, less vulnerable.
“Um . . .” Randolph hesitated again. Ritz thought he might not be prepared.
“I have condoms,” said Ritz, remembering that Kevin had left a pack of Magnums in her nightstand drawer. “I hope you can fit Magnums.”
She was hoping. If she was going to go out on a limb like this, she wanted that limb to be big, thick, and strong.
Randolph blushed and then broke out into a deep, sexy, nervous laughter.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I just can’t believe this.”
“Can’t believe what?” asked Ritz, getting slightly defensive.
“I can’t believe that I am going to go home and take a cold shower,” Randolph said. “You are a very beautiful woman and believe me I would love to stay a bit longer, but I can’t.”
“What?!” Ritz said. “Are you married?”
“No.”
“Do you have a girlfriend?” Ritz asked. “Not that it matters, I am not looking for a relationship.”
“No.”
“Gay?”
“No,” he said. “I just want more. I want a meaningful relationship with a woman, and I don’t want to spoil it by getting into something frivolous, no matter how tempting it is. And believe me, it’s pretty tempting. I made a vow that the next woman I make love to will be my wife.”
Drama Is Her Middle Name Page 11