“THIS ROOM IS nicer than mine,” Nicki Minaj says. At a luxury hotel on the southwestern corner of Long Island, she strides into Suite 402 atop crystal-studded Miu Miu boots, escorted by her bodyguard Billy, a stocky guy wearing a tailored tan suit and a Newark police lapel pin. Minaj scans the living room, glances at the bedroom, takes in the oceanfront view appraisingly. Her hair falls far below her shoulders in long black waves, and black eyeliner licks upward, flamelike, toward her temples. Her T-shirt, featuring a cartoon owl, announces owl you need is love. “I prefer this setup,” she declares. “I want this room instead.”
Minaj’s dutiful day-to-day handler, Ryan, who booked her a diff erent room and intended 402 as a temporary workspace, says the switch is…
