Pilar, which really did have the range to run from Nuevitas to Nassau and back without refueling, is still with us. After Hemingway’s suicide in 1961, his wife Mary signed the Wheeler 38 over to the government of Fidel Castro. The Cubans hauled her up to Finca Vigia and put her on display on what was once the tennis court.
The entire estate is a museum dedicated to Hemingway, and it was recently restored with the help of the Finca Vigia Foundation in Massachusetts. Pilar herself is in pretty good shape for a lady of more than 80 years. The Cubans have taken good care of her. Hemingway was Fidel Castro’s favorite author.
7 July 1943: Pilar, Nassau Harbour
Hemingway pulled a couple beers from the ice chest and popped the caps on an opener screwed to the bulkhead. Interrupting the men’s perpetual poker contest, he motioned for Saxon to follow him inside to Pilar’s forward quarters where Jimmy Bonkowski lay recovering from fish poisoning.
“How you feeling, Jimmy?”
“Better. Now at least I get to bucket to take a crap. No help.”
“Guys probably told you. Jimmy, with you tits-up I’m going to have to do the job myself. I need to ask you what your plans were. I got Sergeant Saxon here as a second set of ears. You can speak freely in front of him, okay?”
Bonkowski nodded. He pulled himself up and sat on the bunk leaning against the bulkhead to take some pressure off his aching limbs. Hemingway handed the Pole one of the beers, and he and Saxon crowded onto the bunk opposite.
“Like in gangster movies, first I go and ‘case the joint.’ See if there is security, where doors are. See if lights on at night. Are windows open? Approaches to house? ‘Cover and concealment’ near house. Them kind of things.”
“Yeah, I watched the place for a couple hours last night,” Hemingway said. “The governor himself and his wife and a couple British Marines were just leaving when I walked by. Then, as far as I could tell, Oakes was all by himself in a goddamn big house, surrounded by a goddamn big yard. A little park across the street, beach in the back. Neighbors on both sides but not close by.”
“You are lucky. People down here not worrying about criminals so much. Ernie, I am very, very sorry. You should not be doing this dirty work. You are tough guy, but, I think, good guy. Killing men not like in movies. Make a guy not so good. This I know.”
“Look Jimmy. What happened, happened. I certainly don’t blame you. Hell, I don’t even blame that knucklehead Gregorio. Just tell us what you were going to do.”
“If Oakes alone, it is—how you say it?—straightforward. Pick lock to house, go in, sneak around until I find man, and do it.”
“Do what? Shoot him?” Saxon asked.
“With Webley? Naw. Sounds like fucking cannon. With knife or garrote. I got garrote too. You know, like a wire for around the neck.”
Hemingway took a deep breath and held it for a moment. It was one thing to blithely dedicate oneself to an extreme plan of action. Quite another to discuss the mechanics of murder as if the topic were a carburetor rebuild. He told himself that this was war, and in war no one ever gets to kill someone he wants to kill.
“I don’t know how to pick a lock, but I may be able to just break in somehow.” Hemingway stood and reached in his pocket. “Then I figure I’d finish it with this.” He pulled out a .22 caliber Colt automatic pistol, his favorite the Woodsman model.
“The bullet weighs only 40 grains but packs a striking energy of 51 foot pounds at 25 feet. It may be the smallest caliber for any pistol, but it’s one of the easiest to hit with—no recoil. I can fire six accurate shots in five seconds. Shit, that’s enough to put Joe Louis down. Much quieter than a Webley, but figure I could wrap it with cloth or something to muffle the sound.”
Bonkowski took another swig. “Do me big favor, Professor Hemingway. Big reason they pick me: I know Harry Oakes from Yukon. Harry Oakes screw my family on a deal for gold. He screw my father, me and two brothers. He screw us good. Put four little bullets in him for Bonkowski family. And good luck with muffle idea. Better, I think, you shoot straight and run like hell.”
Hemingway hollered up the companionway for Gregorio Fuentes then addressed Saxon.
“Don, I want you to remember this name: Petty Officer Theresa Barry. She’s the comms chief for the HQ here. If this adventure goes FUBAR, and I’m not back by dawn, I want you to radio a message for her eyes saying that ‘Roberto is in trouble.’ Got that? ‘Roberto.’ I may need rescuing or a very good lawyer.”
“Roger that, Roberto.”
Hemingway changed languages. “Gregorio, if this thing of ours goes badly, you must get Pilar and the crew back home. I’m going to have a run at the Oakes man tonight. Either way the boat must be ready to leave the harbor at dawn, with or without me.”
“At your orders, Don Ernesto. It is surely a sin to do so, but I will pray for your success and God’s forgiveness.”
7 July 1943: Late Night, Oakes House
“What do I say? What do I say?” Oakes got up from the sofa and strode over to where his drinking partner sat by the table with the nearly empty bourbon bottle. “I say that I’m not going to let a bunch of sister-fuckers and a half-nigger tell me what I can and can’t do with my money!” He shoved Harold Christie, spilling him out of his chair on to the floor.
Christie grabbed at Oakes feet, but Oakes kicked at him and escaped his grip. “You fucking leech,” Oakes hollered. Christie half-slurred, half-shouted curses as he lunged at his tormentor’s feet again, this time grabbing them tight. He yanked as hard as he could, and this time it was Oakes turn to tumble as the slapstick wrestlers competed for advantage.
Christie struggled to his feet, and in so doing pulled the tablecloth off the table, tipping over Mrs. Oakes’ ornate brass candlesticks. Now Oakes was trying to stand, too. “You leeching half-nigger piece of shit. I’ll kill you!” Eyes bulging, Christie snatched up one of the candlesticks and, hollering obscenities, brought the base down on Oakes’ skull like a hammer. Oakes collapsed backwards sending Mrs. Oakes’ French vase crashing onto the floor. Oakes lay where he fell as blood pooled around his gashed head.
Christie dropped his weapon and stumbled backwards onto the sofa, and lay there in a booze-sodden daze. “Shhhouldantacallmeanigga,” he said and lapsed into unconsciousness.
Next: Hemingway discovers Harry Oakes, not quite dead. The Duke directs the investigation.