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 .
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. hav hayday
A voice crackled through. It was not a record executive from New York. It was the station manager. As he drove down the Prado, he saw them
