Hemingway

You could have knocked me over with a sawed-off shotgun when we got up on deck. Some change. The decks had all been swabbed. Not a sign of the carnage that had sent me below. They had even ditched that blood-soaked raft. It was gone with the sharks it had lured to their deaths.

And the captain had even changed the set. We were anchored in the most beautiful little cove you ever saw, in the lee of a tiny atoll like you read about in the South Pacific. And "pacific" was the right word for it. Most peaceful spot you ever saw. The water was smooth as Nassau Scotch. Not a ripple. And we were so close to the beach you could have thrown a stone ashore. But nobody would have thrown a stone at that island. You would have been afraid of disturbing its serenity. It was the other Bimini, they said. Bimini's little sister. No human hand had ever changed her natural loveliness. What a place to rest and have a quiet drink after the or deal of the afternoon, I thought.

We sat around the deck table as peaceful and relaxed as Wooly and Ben on their little yacht in the lee of the wreck. What a life, I thought. A few drinks later the conversation swung around to sharks. Would they really attack an unwounded swimming man? That was still an unsettled question with the experts.

"The natives say they will," Ernest said.

"I wouldn't like to prove it," Floyd Gibbons said.

"Neither would I," the captain said.

"Why not?" I said.

After all, I had read a lot of stuff on both sides of the question. And I had seen natives fight them with knives. But the shark, I had noticed, never attacked the man first. Seemed afraid of him.

"Sharks are cowards," I said. "They will run from a live man in the water. All you've got to do is splash a little to scare them off."

"Suppose you get tired splashing?" Ernest asked.

"Perhaps," I said, "if you were in the water long enough and were hurt and bleeding. But I wouldn't be afraid, for instance, to swim ashore right now if I had to."

Ernest and Gib both knew I was a crack swimmer. Tried out for the Olympic team when I was a kid at the Chicago Athletic Club. But I had a sort of foreboding that I should not have made that crack just the same. Hemingway jumped right down my throat.

"Bet you a hundred you won't swim ashore and back right now," he said.

Always betting, I thought. I sized up the course. The beach was only 50 yards away. The water you could see was only 10 feet deep at the boat and that meant you could probably wade half the distance. That left only 25 yards to go to shallow water if a fin showed up. It's in the bag, I thought.

"I'll take that bet," I said aloud.

Hemingway ran below and came back waving a hundred dollar bill.

"It's yours if you come back alive," he said.

He made that crack to scare me, I thought. I'll show him. Then I played my trump card. Got the captain to act as look out on the flying bridge. If he saw any fins he was to ring the ship's bell. I was more worried about the return trip. My drive from the boat would give me a better start than I could get from the shore. Told him to ring the bell very fast if he saw any sharks between me and the boat on the return so I would know and go back. It was more dangerous in the deep water by the boat, I thought.

When the captain gave me the all clear I went up on the bridge. The higher you are the farther you can plunge and I took a running flat racing dive that was a pip. Must have taken me almost halfway home. Went into a fast beat crawl and in a few seconds my feet hit bottom. The rest of the way was a cinch. When you are standing up you don't scare easy. Besides, sharks don't like shallow water, I thought.

I walked up on the hot sand and waved to my audience. They were all top side to get a better view. I wasn't a bit scared. But, better get back now while the going's good, I thought. So I took a few deep breaths and waded back into the water. I decided to wade out as far as I could and then, if everything was clear, tear for the ladder. If I got the bell I could rush back to shore.

I was about up to my armpits in the warm water when I saw something that sent the cold chills racing up my spine. It was a long dark shadow circling slowly around me. Wow!.

The rest was pure instinct. I didn't wait to investigate that shadow. It looked too familiar. Just ran for shore as fast as I could go. And was I glad to get out of that water! I could feel my heart going like a tommy gun. Dropped down on the sand in a heap. Talk about your heart being in your mouth--I kept mine closed so it wouldn't drop out on the sand.

And then I happened to see the raft. I mean the raft we had used in the shark hunt. They had cut it loose and ditched it on the sand. The sight of that bloody raft chilled me as much as that shadow in the water had. Reminded me of the way those cannibals went for each other. Suppose they did go for live men?

Better yell for the dinghy, I thought. What's a hundred dollars to your life? Stalling for time I got up and walked around. My foot hurt. I looked at it and saw it had been scratched on a shell or something when I had raced ashore. It was bleeding a little. Holy Moses, I thought, there goes another telegram to the sharks.

I glanced back at the boat. Hemingway had the tommy gun in his hands now. He would shoot, I knew, if he saw a shark. I made up my mind that I would get back on that boat again as fast as I could. I decided not to made in this time. Might see something again. Better do like the kids at the beach. Get a good start. So I got going on the beach, ran right on through the shallow water as fast as I could and took a long flat dive. I glanced up at the end of the plunge and found myself almost halfway to the boat. It won't be long now, I thought, and went in to a double beat crawl. I didn't look back. Just buried my face in the water and swam for my life. Didn't look up until my head bumped the side of the boat. Never knew a bump on the head could feel so good. Hemingway's strong hands grabbed me under the arms and pulled me up the ladder. I remembered how those sharks jumped right out of the water at you so I kept kicking out all the way up. Once I felt a sharp pain. There goes my leg, I thought. But I had only kicked my ingrown toenail on the ladder.

Next thing I knew I was flat on the deck and Hemingway was pouring a straight shot down my throat. It spilled all over me because my feet were still kicking sharks away. But that soon stopped and it sure felt good to be lying there, alive and whole, in the warm sunshine. I was still shivering from that warm water.

Then I began to burn up. What if he did pull me out of the water, I thought. It was all his fault that I had gone in there in the first place. Imagine a friend betting you that you wouldn't go into shark-infested waters. The more I thought about it the madder I got.

I strolled over toward him, smiling disarmingly, and was just about to let a one-two go when he did something that almost made me hit the deck again. Vaulted right over the rail into the water. I couldn't believe my eyes. You couldn't have got me in there again for a million dollars. On top of that you could see those dried blood stains on him melting off in the warm water. There go the telegrams, I thought, and they are not night letters either.

And there he was, with all that tuna blood on him lolling, around rubbing himself as though he were taking a bath in his own bathtub. I wasn't sore at him now. I was scared to death for him.

"Start splashing," I yelled.

(continued on page 50)Hemingway(continued from page 46)

"What for?" he said. And he turned over on his back and floated as though he had never seen a man-eating shark in all his life.

I tried to figure the guy out. I knew he hadn't jumped overboard because he was afraid of me. He's not afraid of anybody. But don't tell me he wasn't afraid of that water. I know he was. Remember he believed that sharks will attack a man. I believed they wouldn't. That meant that he had more guts than I had going into the water. Maybe he was just crazier. Or maybe he had forgotten about the blood on him, I thought.

"Come out of there," I yelled.

"Come on in, the water's fine," he said.

I don't believe he was showing off either. Maybe he just wanted to check on the emotions I had gone through, so he could write about it some time. Or perhaps his conscience was bothering him about what he had done to me and he wanted to punish himself for it.

See what I mean? I'm trying to figure him the way he figures other people.

He had everybody on board worried to death. Gib was yelling at him to stop being a fool and the captain was topside sweeping the water with his glasses. You could see he was plenty worried. I climbed up with him and grabbed the machine gun. Might as well be ready, I thought. Lucky I did.

When he saw me with the gun he threw both hands up in the air in mock surrender. Looked like he was more afraid of me with the gun than he was of the sharks. So I covered him with it.

"Don't shoot, I'll come quietly," he said.

And he did come quietly. Swam the breast stroke over to the ladder slowly and came up it as though he were stepping out of a Miami Beach swimming pool. Some nerve. I tried to help him and yelled for him to watch out for his legs. But he said something about their breaking their teeth on his metal kneecap and waved me aside. Didn't kick once.

When he was safe on deck we all breathed easier. All except the little bait-cutter. He let out a frightened yell and pointed a shaking finger at the water. And, I am not kidding, my blood went cold. Just a few feet off the ladder two huge black shadows were lazily circling the spot Ernest had just left. The telegrams to Mr. and Mrs. Tiger S. Shark had not been delayed. One was as big as we had seen all day. The other was smaller but probably more deadly if I know females. She surfaced, rolled over on her side, and shot a baleful look at us that made me jump back from the rail. Some evil eye. And I'll swear I saw her mouth watering. And don't tell me sharks have to show their fins above water. They do that when they are just playful. These two meant business. Then they must have realized they were just too late for dinner and swam off as quietly as they had appeared.

Ernest reached into the coin pocket of his shorts and handed me a wet hundred dollar bill. I saw him shudder and felt his hand shake. "You win," he said.

"Winner take nothing," I said. But I took the bill. That crack was just that book title of his. No sense to it.

We raced back to Bimini wide open. Gib and I were all in. The combination of the ocean and Hemingway was too strong for us. That little hotel would sure look good, I thought.

It was around five when we hit Bimini and hanging on the end of the jetty was a grim reminder of our afternoon's sport. It was what was left of an enormous tuna that somebody had tried to tow in. All that remained now was the head and tail on each end of a bare spinal column. The sharks had stripped it clean. There but for the grace of God, hangs Hemingway and me, I thought. End quote.

The reception committee told Papa Pilar was all fixed so of course he had to go and look her over. We thought he was coming up to the bar with us for a refresher. But there is one thing he likes better than a bar and that's a boat. He said something in Spanish to his Cuban mate and the boy came up with a bottle of Cuban rum and some glasses. Apparently he had refueled in our absence. Ernest mixed some cock tails.

"Have one with me for the road," he said.

"For the road?" I said.

"Si, si," he said.

"We're not going anywhere," Gib said.

"I am," he said.

"Where?" I said.

"Spain," he said.

Just like that, I thought. Wants to see that revolution over there. Guess we will get some more bull stories soon. He never goes anywhere unless he is planning to write about it. Floyd asked him if he would drop him off at Barcelona.

"I'm only going as far as Cuba in the boat," he said.

Only as far as Cuba, I thought. That was just a little jump of 300 miles from where we were. Say a 10-bottle cruise or so. And he is starting out just before dark in a 35-foot boat as though it were across the street. Gib and I just looked at each other. The Cuban mate didn't say anything though. Just went about casting off. You could see he was used to it.

The natives didn't seem surprised either. They would not have been surprised at anything Papa did. They were used to him too. But you could see they were sorry to see him go. They stood around silently in groups watching him pull out. We shook hands with him, wished him bon voyage and walked up the jetty.

When we came out of the bar an hour later the natives were still there. Staring out to sea. It all made quite a touching sight from where we stood. They were shading their eyes from the sun while over their heads hung the skeleton of the tuna. And framed in the scaffold that held the tuna you could just see Ernest's little boat in the distance; the glass in his hand glistening in the setting sun like liquid gold. Like a scene. out of The Arabian Nights, I thought.

I said aloud, "There goes Sinbad the Sailor."

"He's a lot of characters out of his own fiction," Gib said.

Hemingway was in Spain, we heard, before we got back to New York and he didn't come back until the revolution was over. Other Americans who were over there tell me they did not see much of him. But they heard about him. He was a sort of lone wolf as far as they were concerned. Spent all of his time up in the mountains with the Loyalists, living in caves and watching the show from a ringside seat. The Spaniards who knew him said he could drink more of that awful home made Spanish brandy than any two men in their army.

I ran into him a few years later in Miami. He looked thinner and sadder, I thought. Said he was just finishing a book about his experiences in Spain. But do you think he would tell you anything about it? Not on your life. He was going home to Havana and start slugging, he said.

"Look like a good bout?" I said.

"Yes," he said, "I'll win by a knockout in the eighth chapter."

"Expect a good movie purse later on?" I said.

"I'm holding out for a quarter of a million," he said.

"Peanuts," I said. "What's your title?"

"For Whom the Bell Tolls," he said.

"Oh," I said.

"Like it?" he said.

"No," I said.

"The drinks are on me," he said. And they were.

He took me to a little Cuban joint. It had sawdust on the floor. He had his shoes on and looked uncomfortable. Those toes must be itching, I thought. (continued overleaf)Hemingway(continued from page 50) He knocked off a couple of frozen Daiquiris and washed them down with a double rum-and-cola.

"Why the cola?" I said.

"Haven't had breakfast yet," he said.

"Oh," I said.

The waiter brought us two coffees. Mine was half milk. His was half-and-half too. Half coffee and half Bacardi rum.

"No get in Spain," he said.

He talks like that sometimes. Sort of a language of his own, saving his words for writing, I guess.

"When you leaving?" I said.

"In one more drink," he said.

"I'll take you to the airport," I said.

"No like fly, take boat," he said.

"Why?" I said.

"Got a feeling some plane's got my number on it," he said.

There's the chink in his armor, I thought. The one thing in the world he's afraid of. No wonder he never wrote a story about flying. Funny guy. But human after all. We're all scared of something. He had another Bacardi and got up. Walked a straight line to the door too. Wonder how he does it, I thought.

"We going into the war?" I said.

"I am," he said.

And he did. Not long after The Bell was finished, America was in it and so was he. Couldn't get into the army so he went over as a war correspondent. And the next thing I heard he was flying around in those combat planes like a veteran. That's the funny thing about the guy. He's an enigma or something. Says he's afraid of planes, then flies in the war. Maybe you got to start shooting at him to get him into a plane.

I put him on the boat. The minute he left the gangplank he had a smile on his kisser a mile wide. Loves boats. I watched him from the dock. Now, when I get on a boat I start looking over the passengers. You got to pick your partner early. You could see a couple of peaches were giving him the eye. But he's giving the eye to the boat! Standing on the deck, with his feet wide apart, looking up tenderly at her rigging.

When the whistle blew I put my hands over my ears, but not that guy. He threw back his head and listened. Like the ship was some babe whispering in his ear. Bet he has his shoes off already, I thought, to feel the deck better. He didn't have to wave to me. The last I saw of him he had his arms around a big beautiful ventilator. Bet he's the guy who first called a ship "she," I thought.

But I knew, of course, he was only flirting with that big Matson liner. Liked her because she was taking him back to his first love--the Pilar. Funny guy. He's true to boats. Never changes them. He had bought the Pilar when he got his first big purse. And he would stay with her to the end. He's a one-boat-man, I thought.

Some men name a boat after a girl they like. He didn't. He named the girl after the boat he liked. Made her a character in For Whom the Bell Tolls. I read the first and last chapters of that one. I liked the American in it. But the book ended with him lying behind a tree waiting to take a shot at an enemy officer. Wonder whatever happened to that Yank. Seemed like a nice guy.

Anyway I Stayed in Miami Beach during World War II. But I heard about Ernest from time to time. A Paris spy of mine sent me the dope. Ernest had landed on D-Day with the Fourth Division. But when the division hit Rambouillet, about 30 miles from Paris, they found "General" Hemingway there with an army of his own. He had picked up stragglers along the road and formed them into a guerrilla force of over a hundred. This was no "Coxey's Army" though. It was made up of French civilians, "detached" American GIs, FFI, French Resistance heroes and some German deserters.

This was in violation of The Geneva Pact regarding the use of civilians in warfare, but the Hemingway Irregulars were doing a good intelligence job for the French. And our guerrilla leader never considered any fight private anyway.

So when the French and Americans liberated Paris they discovered that the Hemingway Irregulars had already liberated that hot-bed of Nazism--the Ritz bar. The carnage, they say, was frightful. Not a man or bottle was left standing. There was a question then of court martialing the guerrilla leader. But General Leclerc came to his aid and they compromised by decorating him. His comment was typical. "In the next war," he said, "I'm going to tattoo the Geneva rules on my backside."

His luck was pretty good in that war. Just had his skull cracked a couple of times. Might have bumped it on a bar. I thought. Those French bars are higher than ours.

My own luck improved from year to year in Florida. I got married in '44, divorced in '45 and only got run over in '46. Just a skull fracture, broken leg and shock. Hit-and-run case. Happened on New Year's Eve. They say the driver was drunk too. But I was up and around again in four or five years; except for a steel brace that hooked my shoe to my hip. Wished Ernest had been around then. Can you imagine his face if he ever kicked me in that leg with his bare toes, I thought.

But I didn't see him at all during the years I was out of circulation. Read about him now and then in the movie section. Recognized some of those screwy titles of his. But I couldn't have gone to see any of them even if I had had a pass. Doctors orders. My head was still bothering me and sad pictures upset me. I wouldn't have gone to them anyway, I thought, even if my head were all right.

They had shown For Whom the Bell Tolls in Miami while he was still in the war. That was the one he said was going to bring the big purse--a quarter of a million. Wonder what he really got in those Hollywood elimination bouts, I thought.

Had a break. Ran into Elise Robertson. Elise was my old secretary in Hollywood. She was in Florida on a picture. Been tops in her line for years. Knows all the picture dirt. If anyone would know his history, she would. I asked her about The Bell right away. What was Kid Hemingway's take on that one?

"They made The Bell in '43," Elise said. "He only got a quarter of a million."

"No," I said.

"Yes," she said. "Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars."

"Oh," I said.

He's a fortune teller, I thought. Calls his shots before he even writes them. What a horse player he'd be. Picks a long shot with a crazy name and it comes in. Give him a racing form and a pin and he wouldn't have to write a line.

I said aloud, "Did he like the picture?"

"Never saw it," Elise said. "Wouldn't even go to his own première. Most writers can't wait until they see their story on film to start knocking. But he turned it down. Said the bright lights hurt his eyes."

"Did he ever take a Hollywood job?" I said.

"No," she said. "Refused the largest salary every offered a writer. Said he didn't like pictures."

"The man's crazy," I said.

"Like a fox," she said. "If you like them out there they don't like you. Hollywood's a burial ground for good writers."

Well, I thought, that's one cemetery he stayed away from.

I said aloud, "Did he pick up any more Hollywood scratch?"

"Plenty," she said. "On the strength of The Bell he sold two old stories of his he had written back in the Paris days. Got over 50 grand apiece for them (continued on page 60)Hemingway(continued from page 52) and--"

"Wait a minute," I said. "What were they called?"

"One was an African story called The Snows of Kilimanjaro."

"No," I said.

"Yes," she said, "The Snows of Kilimanjaro. He dug it out of an old book of his short stories called Men Without Women."

"Men Without Women?"

"Yes. The studio bought that title too. They made a picture around it. Some title, isn't it?"

"No," I said. "What was the other?"

"The Killers," she said.

"What?" I said.

"The Killers," she said. "Published years ago by Scribner's."

Wait a minute, I thought. That was the gangster story I had read in Paris. Why, I had suggested a good Hollywood ending for that one. Wonder if they used my ending. If they did it ought to be worth at least five G's. Better get the facts, I thought.

"Did you see the picture?" I said.

"Yes," she said. "It was swell and--"

"Forget the plug," I said. "How did it end? Did the killers give it to the Swede with tommy guns while he was saying his prayers?"

"No," she said. "It had a brand new twist. No ending at all. The Swede just stood in bed. Sort of left you up in the air."

"Oh," I said.

What do you know, I thought. Fifty thousand for a short story without an ending. Must be a record. What's Hollywood coming to? May be the guy has something but how come Hollywood saw it?

But anyway I was glad to hear he was in the big dough. Might be able to bite him, I thought. Let's see now, he must have banked that quarter of a million right after the war. Then there was The Snows and those others. That's about half a million. I know the guy spends money like a drunken writer but he must have some of it left. Hasn't made much lately though. Over the River and Under the Trees, or whatever the hell he called it, got rapped by every sports writer in the country. No big purse on that one. You might say it was a TKO in the first round. Guess they are beginning to catch on to him, I thought.

I was wondering if it would be worth my while to drop over and congratulate the old boy. Hadn't seen him in years. Kind of nice seeing a fellow from your own home town when he's in the dough. I certainly had to put the bite on somebody. Those hospital and doctor's bills had cleaned me out. I'd had the leg irons off now for a couple of years. If I do go, I thought, maybe I'd better put the leg brace on again.

No, I thought. That won't work. Sympathy rolls off that duck's back like water. Better play it straight. Too bad he hadn't bitten me when I had it back in Paris. Make it easier. But he had never asked anybody for a dime in those days to my knowledge. Not that he would have gotten it if he asked me. See what I mean? We were never what you call old pals. You know how it is when a fellow comes from the other side of the river. But, just the same, the more I thought of Papa the more I wanted to see him again. He couldn't have spent all that dough, I thought.

Let's see now. Shall I wire or phone him that I'm coming? No, that wouldn't do. Why warn him? Better surprise him, I thought. But how can you surprise the guy holed up in that Spanish fort of his? He might peek out of one of those gun slots and see you. Then you'd never get in. The thing to do is to take him unaware. If he isn't working on a book, he will be at his Havana headquarters. That's it. I'll go direct to Sloppy Joe's.

I hopped on a plane the next morning. Let him take his slow boats, I thought. I was in a hurry. But when I hit Sloppy Joe's I didn't even go in. Knew Ernest wouldn't be there. They'd cleaned the place all up. No sawdust on the floor. So I hailed a taxi. Can drivers everywhere know him. And they know where to find him. This one grinned and took me away from the tourist district into the narrow streets of the native quarter. We stopped before a little joint that had a trail of sawdust leading in and out of the door. This looks more like it, I thought. I got out and tried to look in the window. But you couldn't see inside. When you wiped the window off with your hand it was the dirt on the inside that stopped you. I waded in through the sawdust and when my eyes got used to the smog I looked the bar over.

He was a big man. About 55, I thought. He was standing at the bar with his back to me. Must have weighed a neat two-fifty. He needed a haircut. No, what he needed was two haircuts. One on his head and one on his chin. Both were white. As he threw out a big hand towards his drink you could see the white and black hairs on his wrist. Like silver fox fur on a bear's paw, I thought. You knew he was holding a drink. But his hand was so big you couldn't see the glass. It was a hand you wouldn't want thrown at you in anger, I thought.

He had on one of those tropical shirts the natives wear. Had pictures of sail boats on it. It was not tucked in at the belt. Hung loose like a balloon jib. It was so long you could not see his shorts but you knew he had them on. The shirt was open at the neck and you could see he needed another haircut on his chest.

You could tell he was a Yank by the way he held his drink. Had a death grip on it; like somebody was going to take it away from him. Some hands. Some feet too. He was wearing a pair of sneakers with the new open toe look. He had cut them himself so that his toes could be free. You could see the sawdust in between them.

Who does that back remind me of, I thought. I got it; Gargantua of Ringling Brothers. Had that same careless slouch. Power and grace combined. Sort of a jungle jauntiness. He had very broad shoulders. They were broad right to his knees. I looked him up and down admiringly. Body by Mack Truck; Legs by Steinway, I thought.

His bar stance had not changed a bit. Left foot on the brass rail and right leg stiffened outward. You wondered how that leg could hold all that weight. Had his left paw wrapped around his drink and left elbow on the bar. That was so his right would be free. Most people drink with their right. He hits with his. Must be Hemingway, I thought.

I moved in on his left side. Didn't see me at first. He was staring in the mirror. Good thing that mirror is greasy, I thought, if he ever sees himself in it he's going to start slugging. Better talk to him fast. I put up my guard and tapped him on the arm. Felt like a steel girder.

"Hello," I said.

"Hello Locust," he said. Just like that.

Locust? I thought. Why, that's one of those flying bugs that eats you out of house and home. Wonder who tipped him off, I thought.

I said aloud, "Where do you get that locust stuff?"

"Only see you every seven years," he said.

"Oh," I said.

"You want drink?" he said.

He didn't wait for me to answer. Just said something in Spanish and the barman started making two drinks. Used five or six bottles. Mixed them like cocktails but served them in beer glasses. I tasted mine. Awful. Tastes like embalming fluid, I thought.

"You like," he said.

"Si, si," I said.

"I teach him make," he said.

So that's it, I thought. Always inventing new drinks. The old ones aren't strong enough for him. Must have learned this one from that undertaker's assistant in Paris. It sure had a kick. Better go along with him though. If he (continued on page 66)Hemingway(continued from page 60) can take it, I can. I'm not the one to let an old pal down. He ordered a couple more.

"This is on me," I said.

"My party," he said. "Run a bill here."

That's not so good, I thought. Looks like he knows I'm broke. Wish I had worn that brace.

I said aloud, "See you hit the jackpot with The Bell."

"What bell?" he said.

See what I mean? The guy's a genius at putting you off. Don't tell me he didn't mean that locust crack. Those bugs fly in on you suddenly just like I did. Then they bite you. He knows I'm going to bite him. So he slips me memory serum in a beer glass. I could see through him like a book now. And not one of his books either. I put on a knowing look.

"I wasn't born yesterday, Hemingway," I said.

"You can say that again," he said.

"What?" I said.

"You want eat?" he said.

"What put that idea into your head?" I asked. "Think I flew into this joint to eat?"

"Two more," he said.

Still cagey, I thought. Well. Let's just sound him out on some other Hollywood purse; like an Internal Revenue man would.

"Mister Hemingway," I said, "how much dough did you get for The Green Snows of Africa?"

He said, "Speaking of Africa..."

"Who was?" I said.

"You were," he said.

"So what?" I said.

"So I'm going to Africa," he said. "Gotta make some dough."

"Oh," I said.

"Packing tomorrow," he said. "Hunting story for magazine. Big purse too. Leaving day after."

"Rather sudden, isn't it?" I said, "Don't forget your snowshoes and lawn mower. You'll need them in Africa."

"Keep it up, kid," he said. "Sounds like your old Paris stuff. Go ahead. My shoulders are broad enough."

"So's your rear end," I said.

"Still got the punch though," he said.

"You got the paunch, all right," I said.

He said, "Just bloat, I'll take it off in two weeks."

I said, "Speaking of Paris..."

"Who was?" he said.

"You were," I said. "You used to say you were going to be the World's Champion."

"I will be," he said. "Just finished my star bout. It's a short left-hook downstairs. It's in the bag. Going to win by a KO."

"Hook or book?" I said.

"It's a coda," he said.

"A whata?" I said.

"A coda," he said. "That's an epilogue to a long book. Like a dog's tail. Then I threw away the dog and used the tail."

Some confidence, I thought. Never lost it. He's been in there slugging for 30 years and still talks about the championship. Well, if there is a guy in the world who can sell a dog's tail, it's Ernest, I thought. He's been selling dogs all his life. The guy's a salesman, not a writer. Him and his coda.

"What's your title?" I said.

"World's Champion," he said.

"I mean the book," I said.

"You want drink?" he said.

OK. I thought, so you won't talk. Afraid I might not like it. Well, I'll talk, I thought. He isn't going to keep me off my subject any longer. I'll give him both barrels while I'm still conscious.

"Listen, Hemingway," I said. "Stop beating about the bush. I need a grand. Gotta get to New York. You know what you can do with your drinks. Get it up."

"Why didn't you say so?" he said.

You can never figure the guy out, I thought. Expected him to bet me a hundred I couldn't swim to New York. But he didn't. Just got a pencil and paper from the barman and wrote a note in Spanish. I could see it over his shoulder. Then he called a Cuban boy, gave him the note, and said something in Spanish and the kid ran out the door. You can see those Cubans liked him too. I looked up at the clock. The bank would be open for another half-hour. Lucky I didn't stall any longer, I thought.

"You want drink?" he said.

"Me want drink," I said.

He's got me talking like that, I thought. Hope he doesn't get me writing like him. But you sure had to hand it to him just the same. Never batted an eye when I hit him. Just sent the kid for the dough. You can joke about that shirt of his, I thought, but under that gay awning beats a heart of gold. I touched my glass to his.

"Here's to the winnah and new champion. Keed Hemingway," I said.

Just then the Cuban kid ran in and gave him an envelope. He handed it to me without a word. It was one of those airline envelopes. I opened it up and nearly dropped my drink. It was an airline ticket to New York. No dough.

"Finish your drink," he said. "Plane leaves in half-an-hour. We can just make it. You stop off in Miami and get your bags. Traveling light as usual?"

"Yeah," I said.

"Me too," he said. "Credit good but no cash. Gotta go to work."

Then he signs for the drinks and starts hustling me out of the bar. I needed hustling. Could hardly walk. Felt confused. Couldn't talk. That's the last time I try to keep up with that guy, I thought. Looked like he hadn't taken a drink. Tossed me into a taxi like he was a wrestler. That taxi didn't help either. Those Cubans go around corners on one wheel. Glad I had the ticket anyway, I thought. But the guy's giving me the bum's rush.

I knew he wasn't lying about being broke. But it's not my fault. He don't have to take it out on me. You'd think I was a whole swarm of locusts. Instead of just one. Next thing you know the taxi is right out on the field with the plane. I thought we were going to take off in the cab. Then he carries me up the plane steps like I'm a baby and asks the stewardess to get me black coffee. That's OK, I thought, but what's the rush. I like Havana. Never gave him the bum's rush in my place in Paris. He should have been a bouncer, I thought.

I said, "Why, you didn't even show me that Spanish mausoleum of yours."

He pushed me into a seat and attached my seat belt. I couldn't get out.

"It's just an old fort," he said. "Adios."

"Good night," I said.

Next: "The Old Man and the Sea"

Round 9: "For Whom the Bell Tolls"In Round 8, Hemingway pepped up a fishing cruise by battling a school of sharks with a tommy gun. Kiley and Floyd Gibbons went below deck with a bottle of Scotch to avoid stray bullets.

Ernest's private army had liberated the Ritz