Middle-aged single people in Omaha came to the Lazy Leopard every Friday and Saturday night in an attempt to ease their loneliness. It was a dimly lit cocktail lounge with backlit photos of leopards in repose on the walls, an L-shaped bar, round tables with comfy chairs, and a dance floor with overhead star lights. A combo and a singer with quivering cleavage provided forties and fifties music for slow dance and swing.
The woman who everyone called The Queen out of earshot sat at the same table each night. She always dressed impeccably in red, purple, or black silk or chiffon with pearls and sling heels. Although born and brought up in Omaha’s seedy and notorious southside, her fine features, porcelain skin, pampered raven hair, and composure gave her the look of an aristocrat—a queen. And that’s why the moniker, The Queen.
Her most captivating feature was her Mona Lisa smile and glow, which beguiled and drove men to ask for a dance, and while dancing, invariably ask if she would have coffee or maybe breakfast with them later when the music stopped and the bartenders sounded last-call.
The Queen loved to dance, but when a man held her too close on the dance floor or let his hand slip below her waist, she was quick to react. She grimaced and pushed him away with a few caustic words. Then she retreated to the ladies' room to refresh herself and regain her composure.
Her trips to the ladies’ room for whatever reason were always a treat for the men who sat along the long end of the bar. As she passed by, they turned their heads and ogled the sensual movement of her body inside her silk or chiffon attire until she disappeared from view.
Invariably, one of the men would say something like, “Now that’s my kind of woman.” or “I’d give my right arm for one night in the sack with that piece of cake.” or “I’d sure like to be The Queen’s king for a couple of nights.”
Ruthie, who was several of the men’s last resort, Martha, a recent divorcee with attitude and Laverne, an art teacher with beady eyes and loose skin were among the women who came to The Queen’s table to say hello, gossip, and make sarcastic remarks about others in the place, especially the men.
All three of them dressed to impress not only each other but also the short supply of men, especially those who had jobs, didn’t have body odor or dirty fingernails, and acted as if they could be controlled with a home-cooked dinner and a roll in the hay every now and then.
Sometimes, Laverne lingered at The Queen’s table and waited for a man to ask her for a dance other than Tony, a runt of a man from South Omaha with mafia pretensions. When that didn’t happen, she gave Tony the nod to meet her on the dance floor.
The Queen showed no romantic interest in any of the men, except for Michael Rosellini, a tall and broad-shouldered man who always sported a dark suit with a white shirt and a yellow or red power tie. Although he didn’t show up every Friday or Saturday night, she came alive when he did, quickly losing herself in his masterful charm and good-humor. And he was the only man she would leave with after the bartenders sounded last call.
On the Friday night before the Lazy Leopard closed for good and a crew of men brought in a wrecking ball, a man came to The Queen’s table and asked her to dance. She had never seen him before, but he was handsome, trim, and well dressed. So, she obliged.
On the dance floor, the man immediately pulled her close to him and held her tight. She struggled to free herself, but the man would not let go.
Michael, who had arrived and stood at the bar watching her and the man on the dance floor, rushed to her aid. He grabbed the man’s shoulder and said, “Let her go.”
“Get lost,” the man said, dancing away from Michael with The Queen still in his grasp.
Michael followed. He grabbed the man’s shoulder again. “I said, let her go!”
The man released his grasp on The Queen. Then he turned, raised his fist, and took a swing at Michael. Michael dodged the swing and punched the man squarely on the jaw. The man stumbled backward but regained his footing.
The music stopped. The Queen and the other couples on the dance floor backed away from the man and Michael. They looked on in dismay.
Michael lunged at the man, his fists raised and ready to throw a second punch.
Rage filled the man’s eyes. He pulled a revolver from a holster inside his suit jacket, aimed it at Michael, and fired two shots.
Michael grabbed the left side of his chest. He fell backward and collapsed onto the dance floor. Blood oozed through his fingers and quickly soaked his clothing.
The man turned and ran in panic toward the exit, motioning with the revolver for people to get out of his way.
“Call the police!” someone shouted.
“And call an ambulance!” someone else added.
As people gathered around Michael, The Queen dropped to her knees beside him. She cradled his head in her lap.
"I love you, Michael," she said with tears in her eyes. “I love you so much.”
Michael tried to speak but managed only to whisper her name before closing his eyes and taking a final breath.
The police arrived and questioned The Queen and others. An ambulance arrived as well and removed Michael’s body after an okay from the police officer in charge.
Several days later, The Queen attended the memorial service for Michael along with only a few of the people who frequented the Lazy Leopard on Friday and Saturday nights. A couple of days after that, the wrecking ball did its job, and huge trucks hauled away the debris. The Lazy Leopard was no more, and the people who frequented it on Friday and Saturday nights scattered and became part of a dozen other nightspots that catered to middle-aged singles.
The man who shot and killed Michael Rosellini was never found.
And no one saw or heard from The Queen again. She locked herself away in her Old Market condominium and consoled herself with memories of Michael and her Friday and Saturday nights in the Lazy Leopard. She had groceries and the other things she needed delivered and left at her door.
Memories of her faded along with the night the man shot and killed Michael Rosellini. Memories of relationships, places, and events invariably fade into the past. And when the relationships are superficial, as they often are in a cocktail lounge, memories of them fade more quickly.
About the author
Frank Zahn is an author of fiction, nonfiction, and poetry. His publications include nonfiction books, articles, commentaries, book reviews, and essays; novels; short stories; and poetry. Currently, he writes and enjoys life at his home among the evergreens in Vancouver, Washington, USA. For details, visit his website, www.frankzahn.com.
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