Hav Hayday Info

He walked out of the studio, past the panicked announcers, past the shattered glass of a casino window that had just been looted. He got into the DeSoto one last time. He drove not to the airport, but to the Malecón. He parked the car facing the sea.

He parked the car. He walked into the radio station. The red light blinked on. hav hayday

The hayday was over. And the silence that followed was the loudest sound he had ever heard. He walked out of the studio, past the

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. He parked the car facing the sea

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?

As he drove down the Prado, he saw them. The students. They were gathered outside the University gates, printing leaflets on a rickety press. Their faces were young and hard, not like his face. They didn't want a DeSoto. They didn't want to sing at the Tropicana. They wanted the casinos closed and the Americans gone. They looked at Augie’s suit and saw a collaborator. Augie looked at their clenched fists and saw the end of his hayday .

When the song ended, the control room was silent. Pepe was not clapping. He was staring at the speakerphone.