Hav Hayday -

He did not sing. For the first time in his life, the sonero had nothing to say. He simply watched as the lights of the hotels flickered and died, one by one, until the only light left in Havana was the cold, indifferent light of the stars.

Augie wanted to believe him. He looked at the DeSoto. It was a rental, paid for with three months of savings. He looked at the lights of the old city, the Morro Castle glowing amber in the twilight. Everything was gold and green. The streets were full of tourists with fat wallets and thin morality. The Cubans laughed loud and danced harder, because everyone knew—on some cellular level—that a city this beautiful could not last.

Augie placed the master recording on the passenger seat. He lit a cigar—the last of the good ones, a Montecristo No. 2. He looked at the ocean. Somewhere out there was Florida. Somewhere out there was the future. But here, on this seawall, was the past. hav hayday

He rolled down the window. He turned the radio on. The only station still broadcasting played a scratchy recording of the national anthem, then silence.

This was the Hayday .

Augie looked out the window. The golden glow of the hayday was gone. In the east, the sky was a bruised purple. He could hear the distant pop of firecrackers—or were they gunshots?

Augie wasn't a gangster, nor a politician. He was a sonero —a singer. For ten years, he had been the ghost voice on other people’s records. But tonight, at the CMQ radio studio, everything was supposed to change. His producer, a fast-talking Mexican named Pepe, had promised him a session with the Cugat orchestra. He did not sing

Augie picked up the 78-rpm master recording of "Dos Gardenias." It was still wet. He held it in his hands like a communion wafer.