The chrome of the 1957 DeSoto gleamed like a sword pulled from the sun. Augusto "Augie" Marín leaned against its fender, his white linen suit crisp despite the 90-degree humidity that rose from the Malecón’s spray. Behind him, the Hotel Nacional’s turrets cast long shadows across the lawn where Meyer Lansky’s men counted chips in the cool dark. Ahead of him, the sea crashed against the seawall, throwing salt into the air like confetti.
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. hav hayday
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. The chrome of the 1957 DeSoto gleamed like
“No,” he said softly.
To Augie, it wasn’t just a time. It was a texture. It was the smell of cigar smoke and roasted plantains drifting from the El Floridita bar, where Hemingway had left a stool empty only moments ago. It was the rhythm of the conga drum that never stopped, bleeding out of the Tropicana Club where the showgirls wore feathers imported from Rio and diamonds that cost more than a village in Oriente Province. Ahead of him, the sea crashed against the
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?