The Truth about Lola

The Copacabana.

Neon lights shined out around its windows, calling out to passers-by. The old sign above the awning showed signs of aging, its letters flickering in the half-light of the Miami sunset. As Marcus sat inside, watching the coming and goings of the patrons, dazzled by the whirling disco ball and mesmerized by the beat of the BeeGees, one patron caught his eye. She never seemed to move from her seat at the bar, simply sipping on a gin martini all night long. She was tall and slender, high cheekbones and an elegant air to her. Once, she must have been a knockout, but time had not been kind to her. Long wrinkles had settled into the smooth skin of her face, crows' feet leaving their mark around her eyes. Her jet-black hair was streaked through with grey, still keeping its lustre. She had a hair comb pinned in her hair, a myriad of beautiful feathers flowing from it, faded with age. Her figure kept its definition, despite the sharp contours now softened with age. A skin-tight dress hugged her body, at least twenty years out of style, yet still giving her the look of a former dancer by its cut.

Marcus had started coming to the old club for its history and its rich Cuban heritage, but now he felt himself drawn to the woman. What was her story? He never had the courage to even ask her name, the aura she gave off cold and severe, to say the least. Nevertheless, she stayed until the club closed at 2 AM and caught a ride home. It was maddening as much as it was fascinating.

"Hey, you," a gentle voice said in his ear. Marcus looked up to see one of his favorite servers standing next to him. Elena was one of the long-term waitresses there--almost six months. Most of the others couldn't make it past six days, but her work ethic was solid. She definitely had Cuban blood in her--from her long black hair laid across her shoulder in a braid to her sun-kissed skin, Elena could have been a younger version of Marcus' mystery woman. She had the body for it--Jayne Mansfield would have been jealous of her figure. What set her apart the most from the other waitresses, other than her smile and her light-hearted attitude, were her eyes. She always greeted Marcus with a pleasant look, her brown eyes retaining a kindness that the other waitresses lost. Tonight was no exception as she took the seat in the booth across from him. The sequins on her dress flickered and shined as she shook out her hair and smiled at him.

"Just get off your shift?" he asked.

Elena nodded. "And thank God for that," she replied, her Cuban accent heavy with fatigue. "It's been a crazy night tonight. Couple of girls quit again, so I had to pick up the slack."

"Again." Marcus shook his head. "The work can't be that bad."

"It's not the work--anyone can walk around and take drink orders. Some of them can't keep them straight, a few can't handle running around...but the real challenge is dealing with the constant looks from the men." She shuddered a bit as she added, "Pendejos."

"How do you handle it?"

Elena smiled as she laid her hand over his. "I find a handsome man to talk to after my shift."

He found his own lips began to stretch wide at her comment. He wouldn't call himself handsome by any means, but when a beautiful woman says so, who would argue?

"I also asked around about the mysterious lady," she said, gesturing to her at the end of the bar. "I've heard so many different versions of her story, she's practically a legend."

"What can you tell me?" he asked excitedly.

Elena grinned a bit as she shook a finger at him. "Not here. I've had enough of this place for tonight."

"May I buy you a cup of coffee, then?" Marcus offered as he stood up, also offering his arm to her.

Her grin widened even more as she took his arm, pulling herself close. "I thought you'd never ask, you gentleman, you."