Drama Is Her Middle Name by Wendy Williams

level.
    â€œChas, I know I have what it takes to be the very best this
business has ever seen,” said Ritz during one of their brainstorming Fridays over sushi while sitting at her kitchen island.
    â€œDiva, you more than have what it takes,” Chas reassured.
“You just need a few more accessories. I promise I will take
you to the top. I will take
us
to the top.”
    â€œI see what’s out there, Chas. No one can touch me. But I
also know I can never relax. I have to keep raising the bar, so
none of those bitches out there can even get a leg on my shit.
I want to raise this thing so high that they give up trying to
catch me. Delilah was just a casualty—a necessary casualty.
But we can take this even higher.”
    â€œNo doubt. We will!”
    Ritz needed Chas. She just didn’t know how much. Chas
was responsible for keeping Ritz at number one. For every
single interview after Delilah that made the news or gossip
pages, Chas, as promised, delivered the goods.

11
    MIAMI, FLORIDA
    It had been quite a few years since Ivan Richardson could remember having any real fun. Those were the days before he
became a workaholic, the days before he was consumed with
success, the days before his heart was broken. Ivan found satisfaction and fun in creating buildings from his imagination.
He gained his pleasure from his latest projects.
    As he sat in his gray Herman Miller Aeron chair at his
large, art deco glass desk in his home office, Ivan thought
about how he worked too much. He was becoming like so
many of the men he read about—the kind of men who had
everything and then suddenly dropped dead of a heart attack.
He had read in
Jet
magazine about Glenn Cunningham,
mayor of Jersey City, New Jersey—the first black mayor of
Jersey City—who was at the top of his game and one day after coming home from riding his bike had a massive heart attack and died. The article talked about how he was in such
great shape and how he was a workaholic.
    â€œThat won’t be me!” Ivan muttered to himself as he took
a sip of Georges Vesselle Grand Cru from his Waterford champagne glass. Ivan preferred the taste of champagne to wine in
the afternoon. He especially liked high-end, smooth champagnes like Georges Vesselle. The bubbles made it feel less
like alcohol. He then picked up the recent issue of
Ebony
magazine and smiled. The cover story was about the emergence of the megachurches. And on the cover was a familiar
face.
    Ivan was amazed by how so many blacks were flocking to
church in record numbers and how so many ministers were
becoming celebrities in their own right. There were pastors
who had their own television shows, wore more bling than
rappers, drove Bentleys, and lived in homes that looked like
palaces—while those in their congregation went home to
projects and tenements. To Ivan it was looking like a repeat
of the days of Reverend Ike and Father Divine and Sweet
Daddy Grace, those flamboyant ministers who would pimp
off the poor in their communities, promising wealth and salvation.
    Ivan’s grandmother was a disciple of Sweet Daddy Grace.
She was from Augusta, Georgia, and used to attend the House
of Prayer religiously, a church that was packed with mostly
women and effeminate men. There were too many rules—no
makeup, no secular music, women couldn’t wear pants. Ivan
felt like a prisoner. He was a young boy on summer vacation
but was held hostage with the fun literally wrung out of his
life. He would gladly have attended school during the summer rather than suffer through this. Ivan was forced to sit on
the hard wooden pews for what seemed like eighteen hours
straight. His little legs, which dangled from the pews, often
fell asleep, and he could barely walk when it was time to leave.
    The only excitement came when Sweet Daddy Grace actually came to town. The House of Prayer was run by one of
his many bishops. But when Sweet