Is the Bitch Dead, Or What? (8 page)

In a way, she was in her element in the hospital. Hospitals were for folks who were in pain, and Ritz had spent almost her whole life in pain. So, in the hospital, Ritz felt very much at home.

The door to Ritz Harper's private room opened. Ritz opened her eyes to see Aunt Madalyn and Uncle Cecil.

“Hey, baby girl,” Uncle Cecil said. He stroked her hand, which had an IV tube in it.

Ritz managed to croak out a “Hey.” She didn't expect to feel what she was feeling. Red shame spread across her chest when she looked at Cecil and then to Madalyn, who looked so old and worn. It seemed as though twenty years had passed since she last saw her aunt and uncle, instead of only a year.

The reason why they hadn't spoken in that time was so petty, Ritz now knew. Her aunt was disappointed in her behavior, and her aunt had been right.

Ritz had been too caught up in her rise in the game to have any naysaying or negative feedback thrown in her face. She felt like her aunt didn't understand her ambition, and
therefore she wasn't going to speak to her until Ritz got exactly what she wanted, which was to be told that she was right. Then Ritz would say, “See, I told you so.”

But she didn't feel much like saying that now. Ritz remembered the words her mother had spoken to her, and those words had cut her deep. She remembered the last nasty words she said to her aunt: “That's some bullshit to go along with your slave mentality. You didn't raise me. My mother raised me, and she didn't raise a slave!”

“Slave mentality.” Her Auntie M was the most liberated person Ritz had ever known. Auntie M was naturally beautiful. Auntie M was brilliant. Auntie M had a man whom she loved and who loved her. Auntie M's life had a purpose and a joy. Auntie M had raised her, without complaint, with unconditional love.

Auntie M didn't need a boob job, and a manicured twat, and a thousand-dollar wig, and a big fur coat, and a million dollars in the bank, to make herself feel “free.” Auntie M was free— she always had been, and always would be.

So who, in fact, was really the “slave”? Who, underneath all the makeup, and the bling, and the money, was the one who truly had the “slave mentality”?

Ritz shut her eyes to try to hold in the tears. They were streaming down the sides of her face anyway. Aunt Madalyn stood by Cecil's side as he put his arm around her, practically holding her up.

“I'm so sorry,” Ritz squeaked out. “I'm sorry, Auntie M.

Please forgive me.” The tears now flowed steadily. It was like a cork had been popped on a bottle of champagne.

Madalyn managed a smile and squeezed Ritz's hand, which seemed to be the only part of her body not bandaged.

“
I'm sorry, too, baby. I love you
.”

Ritz nodded and squeezed her aunt's hand. And at that moment, she knew that she was going to be all right.

I'm sorry, too, baby. I love you.

Who said that? Was it Auntie M or was it Mama? Or both?

Later that night, for the first time since she was a little child, Ritgina Harper fell asleep with a smile on her face.

Delilah Summers smoothed the skirt of her blue, pin-striped Brooks Brothers suit. She hadn't worn that suit or any other suit in nearly a year. It was a little snug around the hips and waist, but she could mask that well. Television people are masters of illusion. They know how to hide a few extra pounds, a new wrinkle, or newly sprouted grays. They had tricks— from how to stand and sit to hide a bulge (angle your body sideways and thrust your chest forward), to the special Dermablend cover-up makeup, to the little magic coloring stick when there isn't time to get to the salon for a color treatment.

And there was always Miss Clairol when the job was bigger than a little covering around the temples. Delilah was a pro. She'd been there, done that, many, many times.

All she thought about was getting back on television (and, of course, getting back at Ritz Harper). She knew her day
would come, that she would get back to the top. She just never expected to have to basically start from scratch.

“Screen test?!” Delilah howled into the phone when her agent, Frank Baker from the William Morris Agency, told her about the newsmagazine show CNN was launching.

“I am Delilah Summers! Don't they know what I can do already? Doesn't
everybody
know what I can do?!”

“You
were
Delilah Summers,” said Frank, who never bit his tongue and never tried to soften the truth with one of his most difficult and most famous clients. “CNN knows what you used to be. But quite frankly, Delilah, few people come back from scandal.”

“Pat O'Brien came back!”

“Pat O'Brien is in entertainment,” Frank said. “That's fluff. They thrive on scandal in entertainment. Hell, that probably helped his career. You are a newswoman— a serious news-woman. Look what happened to Dan Rather. He left the business in shame. They didn't give a damn that he worked more than forty years bringing the truth at a high level. They didn't care that he risked his life covering wars. They didn't care about his stellar record. He has one bad spill and bam! It's over. Hasta la vista! You're basically starting all over again, Delilah.”

“That bitch!” Delilah muttered under her breath, barely audible.

“I'm sorry, Delilah,” Frank said. “Let's just knock 'em out, show them that you're ready— that the rumors of your weight gain and mental deterioration are just rumor.”

Delilah tightened her jaw. She couldn't believe that all that she had worked for over so many years could be so frivolously tossed aside. Delilah wasn't completely discouraged. She was still relatively young. Katie Couric, who became the first woman to anchor the
CBS Evening News
, was fifty and still considered a youngster. Diane Sawyer was over sixty and Barbara Walters, hell, she went to high school with Methuselah. Delilah was younger than the youngest by more than a decade. Time was on her side to re-create herself and make a serious comeback. But this comeback had to be for good.

She still couldn't grasp that Ritz Harper— that no-talent lackey, as she referred to her— could not only bring her down in one fell swoop, but could then go on to become one of the biggest names out there.

That bitch
!

That had become Delilah's mantra.

“I am not going out like that!” Delilah declared to Frank. “I will be back!”

“Of course you will,” he said. “That's why we never dropped you. I knew it was just a matter of time. Now, get your fanny in gear. You cannot be late!”

Jacob Reese's cell phone rang. He was nervous about answering it. He saw the news reports that said Ritz Harper was still alive. He was all dressed up with nowhere to go. He had on his go-get-my-money suit and just hours ago he was buying buildings and building his personal empire. Now everything was in jeopardy.

Jacob fidgeted as he answered the phone.

“Hello?”

“The bitch is not dead!” The voice on the other end spit the words out. “You fucked up. You don't get your dough until you finish the job.”
Click
.

Jacob was fuming. He knew he wasn't cut out to be a hit man. It seemed like he couldn't do anything right. He had big dreams but no follow-through or execution. He had a failed marriage that was his fault because he kept coming up with
these get-rich-quick schemes and squandering the family's hard-earned money. His wife finally got fed up.

“You can break yourself, but I work too damn hard to go broke,” she'd said before she left. He realized that love didn't conquer all, money did. He had dreams that his wife would come back once he got himself together. But she had moved on.

He couldn't hold a steady job, because he never focused on doing the job he was paid to do. He came into the workplace like he was doing them a favor showing up every day. And Jacob spent his time at his job on the company phone, setting studio times, trying to make deals with producers, and working to get his demos heard. He was wheeling and dealing, and eventually he ended up being wheeled right out of the job.

His music career went nowhere, and now this had been his big chance to get paid— or at least give him a leg up on really getting paid— and he couldn't get that right, either.

“How did that fucking bitch live?” he said. “I know I had to get one of those bullets near her heart. Shit! Shit! Shit!”

He got in his car and drove to the hospital. He figured he could slip in there and maybe smother her and finish the job. He'd seen that done a couple of times on television. But the hospital was teeming with police and security. He decided he would lay low, strike when they least expected it.

“I'll have another opportunity. The next time she will die.”

Chas saw no reason to call the rest of Ritz's crew to the meeting. Aaron and Jamie would have to go along with whatever plan Chas hatched if they wanted to continue to work for the Ritz Harper Excursion.

Chas had one phone call to make before he went to meet with Ernest Ruffin about his replacement for Ritz. Moon was a radio personality who had been run out of every town he worked in because of something he said that was controversial. After the death of rap superstar Notorious B.I.G., he played the sound effects of a gun and then a cow mooing and said, “Got beef? Well, believe me, sweetie, we now have enough to feed the needy. Good riddance to that fat ass.” That didn't sit well with the folks in Connecticut, where Moon's morning show was always in the top three. The calls that came in following that forced the station to suspend him
indefinitely. He landed in South Carolina, where some comments about “crackers” and “rednecks” got him another pink slip. At his next gig, he had a beef with a rival jock in Ohio and threatened to kidnap his daughter and shave her head. He said he was joking, but folks don't take kindly to threats made against four-year-old girls. But in radio folks seem to have a short memory. So now he had the top-rated show in the nation's capital.

Chas had had his eye on Moon for a while. Actually, he had his hands on him at one time. The two were fuck buddies who'd met at one of those exclusive clubs. Chas instantly liked how raw he was. Moon was a high school dropout, an undercover brother. He hid his sexuality behind rugged B-boy clothes and a nasty disposition. He came off tough and mean and could verbally abuse someone to tears. Moon's insecurities over being found out as gay and his lack of education made him even more ferocious. He was a voracious reader. He wanted to make sure that no one could challenge him intellectually. He had ready-made comebacks for anyone who came at him. His philosophy was to hit someone so hard that they didn't think about coming back. And it worked.

Chas cut right through all of that bravado and BS. Moon loved that Chas could see the real him. He was sprung. Chas always left a man feeling like a king, even if he was only going to be a king for the night. Moon was one of those who wanted to be a king forever. But that could never happen. Chas wasn't the “forever” type. Besides, Moon was too
insecure for Chas to have so much control over him in a relationship. Moon was a classic loose cannon that could blow at any time. Chas needed his man to be predictable.

Moon's volatile personality, however, made for fabulous radio. The great thing about him was that while people hated him, they loved to hate him. There is regular hate where people are repulsed, and then there is hate that brings intrigue and is addictive. It's why so many people stay in bad relationships. They know they need to leave that abusive man or cheating woman, but they can't because they believe the next time it will be different.

But it never is. The abuser or cheat is so charming that they promise never to do it again, and they are believed every time. And every single time they are lying. Moon was one of those types. He was a perfect replacement for Ritz.

Chas had Aaron compile two weeks' worth of Best of shows featuring some of Ritz's interviews, including her final interview with Ivan Richardson, the man who had outed one of the hottest ministers in the country. That one they repeated twice during the packaged shows.

Chas needed to secure one more thing before he met with the bosses at WHOT.

“Moon?”

“Yo, whassup? Who this?”

“It's Chas. I don't have a lot of time to go into details, but I need to know if you're up to leaving that rinky-dink station of yours in D.C. and head back to New York for your chance at the big time?”

“Rinky-dink? Nigga, I'm in the nation's capital and I'm numero uno. Please! For what station?”

“Stop smelling yourself. I need to know if you're interested,” Chas said.

“I'm listening. What you got?”

“I'll call you back with the details,” Chas said, and hung up before Moon could respond. Chas didn't want to have too much conversation. He was a student of the 48 Laws of Power. And Law No. 4: Always Say Less Than Necessary, implied, “Powerful people impress and intimidate by saying less.” Chas had mastered that. He had mastered quite a few of the laws, including Law No. 8: Make Other People Come to You— Use Bait if Necessary. He loved being around hungry people and holding all the food.

Moon was very hungry.

Now was the time for Chas to see how well he'd studied the laws of power. If he could pull off this coup at WHOT, he would be the official master.

Chas drove up Park Avenue and was rounding the block to the garage that he normally parked in near the station.

“What a difference a couple of days makes,” he said.

It was only a few days earlier that Chas had been on this same street and all was calm. It had just been another day, with people going to and from work. Today there were some leftover pieces of yellow police tape, and reporters and news trucks parked out front. Undercover detectives were surveying the area and interviewing anyone who may have seen
anything. They were looking for any lead that might uncover who had shot Ritz Harper.

Chas pulled into the garage. He got the ticket and handed his keys to the attendant. He smoothed out his silk shirt and let his hands run down his linen-blend pants. He walked past the reporters and the police, took a deep breath, and pushed through the revolving door.