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 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. hav hayday
“Augie,” the manager said, his voice trembling. “The President is on the line. Batista’s men are leaving the city. There are reports… the rebels are coming down from the Sierra Maestra. Tonight.” He did not sing