IN THE SUMMER OF 1992, I signed a label deal with ID Records in Chicago. Owned by Steve “Silk” Hurley, a prominent DJ and remixer, and his partner, Frank Rodrigo, ID was primarily a dance label with crossover appeal. RCA paid $300,000 for a stake in the label, giving us the first choice of any acts Silk signed along with access to his remixing and production skills. I was particularly excited about one of his acts—Chantay Savage. It was the first major deal I landed for RCA, and I believed it had the potential to grow into a lucrative partnership.
Before the ink could dry on the deal, however, Dave Novik began meddling with it. He traveled to Chicago with Joe to see Silk. After that trip, I found myself relegated to the sidelines as the deal was restructured for substantially more money than I had negotiated. I don’t know why Joe and Dave decided to throw so much more money at ID, and I never had a chance to find out. Silk asked Joe to take the project away from me and transfer it to Skip Miller, the senior VP of R&B. Joe didn’t stick up for me.
Skip was a regal man—tall, handsome, and always well dressed. He thought what Joe, Dave, and Silk had done to me was unfair, and he invited me to dinner to talk about it. We ended up having Sunday dinner at my place, and as we ate, Skip expressed his sympathy. He knew Dave wanted to get rid of me, so he offered to keep me on his budget. He thought I had talent, and he wanted to work with me. He said he’d speak with Joe about it. I was touched—Skip didn’t have to stick up for me, but he was one of the few men who did.
Unfortunately, there was only so much he could do. A week later, he called and told me Joe wouldn’t authorize his idea. I appreciated Skip going to bat for me, and I still do, but I was upset. I realized I was dealing with the same man over and over again in my career. Sometimes he was shorter, sometimes taller, sometimes thinner, sometimes fatter, but he was always the same man. I didn’t yet have the wisdom to understand the ways I sought this man out—the ways I attracted narcissists, assholes, and addicts, as much as they attracted me—but I was tired of making the same choices and getting the same results. My career felt like a merry-go-round. Find a job. Sign an act. Become marginalized. Get no credit for success. Get fired. Repeat. I felt vindicated when Chantay Savage’s single went gold, but I was on the “get no credit for success” part of the merry-go-round.
My descent into hell had begun, and Dave Novik acted as my tour guide. This was the man who branded me “unrelenting” before he even met me. Now he rarely spoke to me except to second-guess me, or to make me second-guess myself. He gave me the worst jobs—there was no shortage of shit jobs at RCA—and he never invited me to A&R showcases. He was mean and petty. Joe kissed his ass constantly, and I lost respect for Joe. I had no respect to lose for Dave.
Under Dave Novik, time seemed to stretch on endlessly. Every day felt like a week. I slogged through work only to return home and struggle with my husband. Randy became my reason for showing up every morning. He was the only one who seemed to care. He’d come into my office and offer advice, counsel, and an open ear for my troubles. He was slowly molding me into a better A&R executive. Unfortunately, the sexual tension between us was part of the problem, but I was in denial about it, and I couldn’t talk to him about it. Thankfully, whenever the pressure became too much to bear, I had escapes.
On the West Coast, I had my good friend Charlie Minor. Whenever I visited L.A., he’d meet me with a kiss on the forehead, a big hug, and an assurance that everything would be OK. We’d vent about how no one understood us and how everyone demanded too much from us. We never talked about his many girlfriends, but he continued to give me relationship advice. I told him my husband thought our relationship was improper. Charlie laughed hard about that one. Every time Charlie and I parted, we said, “I love you.” This was new to me. I always had a hard time saying those words, but with Charlie, it was easy. Rarely does platonic love exist between a man and a woman, but it existed between Charlie and me. I didn’t have to worry about pleasing or disappointing him. I could just be myself; that was enough. When we spent time together, I didn’t feel alone like I did everywhere else. I felt understood.
On the East Coast, I had Frank DiLeo. I first met Frank in 1990, but I knew him by reputation long before that. Frank was famous for managing Michael Jackson, although he’d been fired in 1989 under mysterious circumstances. Frank landed on his feet, becoming a movie star in Goodfellas, playing Paul Sorvino’s brother, Tuddy. He had recently returned to New York City and opened a management company for artists, producers, and writers (Richie Sambora and Taylor Dayne were clients). I was interested in one of his acts—Renee Props, a soap-opera star who wanted to become a singer—and I went to hear her demo tape at Frank’s headquarters. The headquarters took up an entire floor of a building on West Fifty-Seventh Street. Frank’s assistant escorted me into his office, where I saw a five-foot-two Italian guy chomping on a cigar, sitting next to a baby grand piano. I bent over to shake his hand, and he said, “Why are you wearing a red bra?” I replied, “Why are you looking down my shirt?” We both laughed. It was the beginning of a beautiful friendship.
By the fall of 1992—not long after he had landed the role of Frankie “Mr. Big” Sharp in Wayne’s World—I started hanging with Frank six nights a week. I saw him more than I saw my own husband. It helped that Frank was always available. He was married but didn’t live with his wife (I called her the Invisible Woman). Every morning on my walk to work, I passed Frank’s apartment building, which served breakfast on the ground floor. Most days I’d stop in and eat with him before work. After work, I usually met him for dinner. At the time, Trattoria Dell’Arte on Seventh Avenue was the hot restaurant in New York, so that’s where we went—Frank had to have the best of everything. I loved how people in the restaurant lined up to pay their respects, just like in Goodfellas. He truly lived the part.
At these dinners we gossiped about everyone in the music business. Frank bitched about his lawyer—Joel Katz, whom I knew. I bitched about my boss—Joe Galante, whom he knew. He had once worked for RCA, and he laughed when I talked about becoming a top-level executive there. “Nothing’s gonna happen for you at RCA,” he said. “Those guys, they’re from Nashville. You’re not their type of girl. You’re my type of girl. You’re a broad.” Part of me knew he was right, but I didn’t want to believe him.
Frank and I each had childhood nicknames (Bebe and Tookie), but we gave each other new nicknames. I dubbed him the King, and he called me Virginia, after Bugsy Siegel’s mistress, Virginia Hill—the ultimate Mob moll. This renaming was a unique expression of intimacy, a sort of christening into friendship.
Like Charlie, Frank was wildly generous. He’d call me and say, “Virginia, I’m flying to L.A.—come.” He’d upgrade me to first class on the flight, then drive me to the Four Seasons Hotel, get out of his car, and hand hundred-dollar bills to the bellhops, saying, “Take care of her.” Then he’d motor to his cabana at the Peninsula Hotel, where the West Coast music industry flocked to party with him. He’d chomp on his cigar and regale us with tales of Goodfellas. If he was in the mood, he’d talk about Michael Jackson and his pet chimp, Bubbles. Michael took Bubbles everywhere, and Frank often had to change Bubbles’s diaper—he bragged that he could do it in less than three minutes. Once, on tour in Hong Kong, Michael insisted that Bubbles have his own hotel suite, so Frank had to set it up and deal with the damages after the chimp destroyed the room.
Sometimes, I was able to return Frank’s generosity. One day at RCA, he called and said, “Virginia, I need you to get Richie Sambora’s parents tickets to see Tony Bennett at Radio City Music Hall.” I asked my secretary to place a call for me to Columbia Records, and I got the tickets. Then, without really thinking, I said to the secretaries in the pit, “Richie has the biggest dick in the music business.” They asked how I knew, and I told them about the time I was backstage with Skid Row on the Bon Jovi tour and I accidentally saw Richie coming out of the shower. “The guys in the band call it the Monument, after the Washington Monument,” I said. “It arrives an hour before he does.” I was daydreaming again.
Frank led a wild life, but he went to Catholic Mass every Sunday. If I happened to be with him on a Sunday, no matter where we were in the world, I had to attend. Refusal was not an option. He was a strict Catholic in church, but when it came to morality in the real world, he wasn’t so different from Ahmet. Maybe that’s why I liked him.
The adventures I had with Frank are still among the most memorable of my life, but after a while, I realized I was using these adventures to escape reality. In a way, we both were. We were adrift, looking for the next thing to come along. Frank was deeply hurt when Michael Jackson fired him, and he hoped to get back into the King of Pop’s good graces. I was hiding from the pain of a failed marriage and a job I increasingly hated. He provided a wonderful distraction, allowing me to delay the difficult decisions I needed to make in my life, but I couldn’t delay them forever.