Tropicana Nights: The Life and Times of the Legendary Cuban Nightclub

by Rosa Lowinger

Now it was time to see if they could pull this off when she jumped from the top. “First go up another five feet,” suggested Johnson. But Chiquita was tired of the arduous climb; anyway, she knew that she could do this. She dashed up to the top of Max Borges’s elliptical structure before her partner could protest. To those below she looked like a spider in her black rehearsal leotard. She remembered feeling like a monkey at the top of a jungle canopy. She could look out over the roof of the mansion where Martín operated his casino, and the tropical panorama that was Villa Mina. Again, she held onto the metal tubing and leaned out. Without taking his eyes off of her, Johnson clasped wrists once again with Henry and Miguelito. No one moved. Even the custodians who were sweeping and setting up the chairs and tables stopped what they were doing to look up. At the top of the sun-dappled sculpture, the tiny leotarded dancer unleashed the bloodcurdling scream of her Omelen-ko character, then plunged into the lattice of waiting arms.