Is the Bitch Dead, Or What? (10 page)

He used men just like he used everyone for his own purposes. Mr. Perfect Ass's purpose this night was just to allow Chas to release some tension. Chas's plans of bringing Moon to New York were dashed. Ernest Ruffin had other plans, and it included bringing Ritz back as soon as she was able. The news was getting around quickly that Ritz was recovering. Ruff asked him to extend her
Best of
shows for one more week and then they would have guest hosts fill in for one week at a time. Chas was trying to work Moon in as one of the fill-ins, but Ruff wanted to keep the female flavor flowing.

“You know the female audience is one of the most coveted in radio. Ritz has been able to dominate that market. I don't want to mess with that,” he said. “We're going to put some placeholders in there until Miss Ritz is ready to regain her spot.”

Ruff's decision made Chas boil inside. That was not his
plan. Chas's plan included replacing Ritz altogether and showing that he was the actual mastermind behind the success of the Excursion. He could create a star out of anyone, and if he got the chance to put Moon on the air, he would prove it. But Chas had to play it cool. He had created Ritz just as Dr. Frankenstein had created that thing, that monster. And now all eyes were on Dr. Chas's Miss Thing. What an unlucky break, he thought, that she was recovering.

A fake smile crossed Chas's face as Ruff was speaking.

“So I need your help in shaping these shows over the next few weeks and bringing in some hot guests,” Ruff continued. “Do I have your cooperation?”

“Of course,” Chas said. “The only reason why I brought up Moon was because I didn't want Ritz's ratings to drop even one point. And I knew that Moon could stir enough shit to keep WHOT hot. But your plan makes perfect sense. So who's the first fill-in?”

“Michelle Davis.”

“That hot chick from Fox?” Chas said. Chas might be gay, but he wasn't blind. She did not have a face for radio. She had a face for television. And if she could bring any of that hotness over the airwaves, he may be able to stick to his plan, just shift it from a Moon to a real star.

“Yep, that's the one,” Ruff said. “She's excited about doing it. She doesn't normally do radio, but she said she really hit it off with Ritz when she interviewed her for that magazine piece and had her on her weekend talk show on Fox. She considers it an honor.”

“Well, I consider it an honor working with her,” said Chas.

Chas went to the club that evening and picked up Mr. Perfect Ass. He went to Mr. Perfect Ass's place— appropriately, in the Meatpacking District of New York. Chas did his best plotting while he was plowing into some fresh meat. He was often mistaken for a bottom, the kind of man who liked to take it because of his slight build and elegant ways. But Chas was a top dog all the way.

He walked over to the world's best ass and rubbed his hand across the round, smooth surface— the result of fresh waxing. Chas aroused himself quicker than even he could believe. He reached over and grabbed a condom off the end table and put it on. Mr. Perfect Ass stirred. Chas climbed on top of him, straddling that ass. He grabbed his hips and guided him upward as Chas reached around to feel Mr. Perfect Ass's equally perfect penis, which was completely swollen. Mr. Perfect Ass let out a moan in anticipation as Chas parted the man's cheeks with his other hand and carefully guided his own fully engorged penis into the opening. Chas slowly tapped once and then expertly found his spot as he leaned forward, letting himself fall in with an exhilarating thrust.

While he was grinding and churning himself into a frenzy, Chas thought how good it felt being top dog. He thought about everything he had accomplished. He thought about Ritz, and with a guttural moan, he exploded. Chas fell off and onto his back, chest heaving as Mr. Perfect Ass removed his condom and massaged his spent private parts.

Chas was deep in thought. He thought about the shooting.

He thought about his next move. He had a lot of business to tie up. He knew what needed to happen, but he had to make sure that he and the program director, Ernest Ruffin, were on the same page.

Chas slid out of bed and walked, still deep in thought, to the bathroom. Stopping in his tracks, Chas put his arms out, touching both walls in the hallway leading to the bathroom. He turned and said matter-of-factly, “I got a lot on my mind, so I'm gonna let myself out after I shower. I'll call you.”

Chas had no intentions of calling. He was too engrossed in the other things that were turning him on lately. The power tripping. The puppeteering. The masterminding. He had a plan. And if it worked, no piece of ass could top the feeling that would be awaiting him.

Randolph Jordan was satisfied. He had finally landed a big contract that would pay him six figures for about three weeks of work. He was set to rewire a hospital on the East Side. Since leaving corporate America and starting his own electrical contracting business, Randolph wasn't sure if he'd made the right choice. The first couple of years were lean, to say the least. But business was certainly picking up.

The two men he had hired to help him with the job met him in the hospital lobby. It was unusually busy, he thought, with a lot of people who looked neither sick nor like medical staff.

“What's the commotion about?” he asked the security guard at the front desk of the hospital. Everyone had to sign in and show ID. Security was extra strict.

“Ritz Harper is a patient here, and those people over there
are reporters trying to catch a scoop,” he said, pointing to the ragtag team stationed in the emergency room waiting area. “Over there are plainclothes cops. They're checking every single person who comes in. Whoever shot Ritz Harper is still out there.”

“Ritz Harper?” Randolph said, looking puzzled. He hadn't really followed the news or gossip pages. He had read somewhere that the radio shock jock had been shot, but he had no idea she would be in the very hospital he'd be working in.

“Yeah, that bitch on the radio who's always gossiping about someone,” the guard said. “Someone tried to put her out of her misery, I guess.”

Randolph didn't respond. He was in a daze. He flashed back to the very memorable evening he spent with Ritz Harper and how he really did have to take a cold shower when he got home. She left quite an impression. He expected to see her again. He just never expected it would be like this.

Randolph had a brief meeting with his men and showed them exactly what they would be working on for the day. Ironically, their work zone was on the same floor as Ritz Harper. Randolph took the opportunity to stop in and see her. There was a guard standing in the outer area. He showed him his contractor's ID and told him that he was a friend.

He put his electrical-tool belt down and walked in. The hospital had set up a mini waiting area in the room next to Ritz's room. He hesitantly poked his head into the room. His eyes locked with Tracee's and he could have sworn he saw her blush.

“Hi, I… I don't mean to disturb you all, but I just wanted to stop by and see how Miss Harper was doing,” Randolph said. “How is she?”

Tracee was sitting in front of the door and Madalyn and Cecil were next to her. Ritz was sleeping. They were all waiting for the doctor to come by and give them some news of her condition.

“We don't know much,” said Tracee, who smiled for the first time in a week. “She's out of the coma, but she isn't completely out of the woods. But she thinks she is, which is a good thing. Ritz has a lot of fight in her.”

“What did you say your name was?” Aunt Madalyn said.

“Oh, I'm sorry, ma'am, my name is Randolph, Randolph Jordan,” he said. “I fixed Miss Harper's Jacuzzi a couple of months ago. She's quite a lady. I hope she has a complete recovery. I started listening to her on the radio and I miss her. I just wanted to come by and pay my respects.”

“Okay, we'll tell her you stopped by when she wakes up,” said Aunt Madalyn.

“I'll be around for a while. I just got a contract to do some wiring on this floor in the hospital,” he said. “So if it's okay, I'd like to stop by tomorrow.”

“Of course you can,” said Aunt Madalyn.

“Thank you,” Randolph said. “I'm going to get back to my work. I look forward to seeing you all tomorrow.”

“Okay,” Madalyn and Cecil said in unison.

The pleasure will be all mine
, Tracee was thinking. She felt very naughty. But what she said was “See you tomorrow.”

Randolph smiled at Tracee as he left.

“And he has the nerve to have dimples, too,” Tracee said to herself.

It had been more than a year since she had a relationship. When she left New York, she left everything, including the boyfriend she had been seeing for three years. Her life had been superficial. She had the high-profile job as a record company executive. She had the perfect Manhattan loft and the perfect investment banker boyfriend. He was Jack-and-Jill, Alpha Phi Alpha, 100 Black Men perfect. He was bring-home-for-Thanksgiving and fit-right-in-with-the-family perfect. He was there for the Grammys, American Music Awards, the BET Awards. He wore Brooks Brothers and Armani, spectacles, and had perfect diction. He would have made the perfect husband and the perfect father. Had Tracee stayed around, they would have had a house in the Hamptons or Sag Harbor and two-point-five children within four years.

One snag. This man didn't believe in God. When Tracee started going to church, he refused, saying, “Please don't get too caught up in that holy-roller stuff, Tracee.” The more Tracee got caught up, the more she started reading her Bible and studying the Word, the more she realized that she was leading a shallow life. Her life was all about the appearances, but it had very little substance. She started looking at her man beyond the worldly eye, the career, the clothes, the look, and found that he wasn't the kind of man that she wanted to raise a family with and live happily ever after. She discovered that he wasn't really into Tracee as much as he was into

Tracee's lifestyle. He got major points with his boys going to the Grammys and walking the red carpet.

When Tracee announced that she was considering leaving her job and taking the platinum parachute, he lost it.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” he said. “You're such an ungrateful bitch! You have the best job in the world. People would kill to have your job, and you're just going to throw it all away. For what? For Jesus? Shiiiiit! That's the dumbest thing I ever heard.”

Mr. Perfect had perfect grammar, but he also cursed like a ten-year-old in a schoolyard. Tracee was not going to be called a bitch by anyone, not even by Mr. Perfect in his Brooks Brothers suit. If he spoke to her like that now, what would he be saying to her in five years? Would he go from punishing her with his mouth to punishing her with his fist? Of course he would.

She decided it wasn't worth explaining— at least not to him. She was going to follow her heart, and that meant walking out on the “perfect” job and the “perfect” man in search of a
real
perfect life. She never looked back. But there were times when she felt incredibly lonely. There weren't many people from her old circle who understood what she was doing and why. Not even Ritz. Ritz tolerated Tracee's changes. She accepted them. But Ritz didn't understand them. There were many things Tracee could no longer talk to her friend about— like men.

Celibacy was not something Tracee ever set out to practice. She just said she wasn't having sex with anyone until
the right one came along. The problem was that Mr. Right seemed to be taking his time. And as much studying and reading and going to church as Tracee was doing, she was still a human being with human needs. She wasn't like some women, praying for a man, begging God for Mr. Right. But she did indulge in fantasy every now and then. She would allow herself a taste of some eye candy and some mind candy. Tracee knew when she was close to improving herself, she would be in a position to receive that man. She was always of the mind that you would never find the right man until you were right within yourself. Somewhere, long ago and far away, she had read:

Marriage can make a good life great. Marriage cannot make a bad life good
.

She had never forgotten that advice. In fact, she lived by it.

“Why in the world would God do that to some good man by having him get involved with a woman who wasn't right?” Tracee would say to the women in her church. “That is not love, that is biology, a natural reflex, like scratching an itch. Fix yourself first, be a good woman, and you will attract to you what you are. He will come to you.”

Tracee wondered if her man had just come to her. She couldn't quite explain it, but it seemed as if she knew this Randolph Jordan. She felt like she knew him well.

And as Tracee daydreamed, Cecil and Madalyn were having a similar experience about Randolph.

“Cecil, did that young man seem familiar to you?” Madalyn said. She was frowning.

“He seemed very nice, but I don't
know
about familiar.”

“He looked very familiar to me. You know I don't forget a face.”

“Baby, I know that for a fact,” Cecil said. “You think you've seen him somewhere before?”

“Yes, I think he is someone I've seen before,” she said. “Or someone very much like him.”

“Who?” asked Cecil.

“He called himself Randolph, but he reminds me of someone named Ritchie.”

“‘Richie'? Like Richie Rich, the cartoon character?”

“No, Ritchie with a t. Like ‘Ritgina.'”

“Like who?”

“Like Ritchie Jordan. Ritz's daddy.”

Ruff decided to throw a WHOT Block Party/Welcome Back Ritz Party in Washington Square Park in the West Village of Manhattan. He pulled some strings to get a park permit. He contacted the head of publicity at Universal Music Group and booked a couple of the hottest artists to perform. Station manager Abigail Gogel was not in agreement with any of it.

“So not only are we not firing that Ritz Harper, but we're throwing her a fucking party?!” she said. “I don't know who is crazier— you for coming up with the idea, or me for going along with it. I don't know, Ruff. I don't know about this.”