Chapter 10

Friday was cloudy, with scattered light showers, and the only people who swam were a young couple who took a quick dip early in the morning just as Brody's man arrived at the beach. Hooper patrolled for six hours and saw nothing. On Friday night Brody called the Coast Guard for a weather report. He wasn't sure what he hoped to hear. He knew he should wish for beautiful weather for the three-day holiday weekend. It would bring people to Amity and if nothing happened, if nothing was sighted, by Tuesday he might begin to believe the shark had gone. If nothing happened. Privately, he would have welcomed a three-day blow that would keep the beaches clear over the weekend. Either way, he begged his personal deities not to let anything happen. He wanted Hooper to go back to Woods Hole. It was not just that Hooper was always there, the expert voice to contradict his caution. Brody sensed that somehow Hooper had come into his home. He knew Ellen had talked to Hooper since the party: young Martin had mentioned something about the possibility of Hooper taking them on a beach picnic to look for shells. Then there was that business on Wednesday. Ellen had said she was sick, and she certainly had looked worn out when he came home. But where had Hooper been that day? Why had he been so evasive when Brody had asked him about it? For the first time in his married life, Brody was wondering, and the wondering filled him with an uncomfortable ambivalence --self-reproach for questioning Ellen, and fear that there might actually be something to wonder about.

The weather report was for clear and sunny, southwest winds five to ten knots. Well, Brody thought, maybe that's for the best. If we have a good weekend and nobody gets hurt, maybe I can believe. And Hooper's sure to leave. Brody had said he would call Hooper as soon as he talked to the Coast Guard. He was standing at the kitchen phone. Ellen was washing the supper dishes. Brody knew Hooper was staying at the Abelard Arms. He saw the phone book buried beneath a pile of bills, note pads, and comic books on the kitchen counter. He started to reach for it, then

stopped. "I have to call Hooper," he said. "You know where the phone book is?"

"It's six-five-four-three," said Ellen.

"What is?"

"The Abelard. That's the number: six-five-four-three." file:///C|/My Documents/Mike's Shit/utilities/books/pdf format/Benchley, Peter - Jaws.txt (81 of 131) [1/18/2001 2:02:22 AM]

file:///C|/My Documents/Mike's Shit/utilities/books/pdf format/Benchley, Peter - Jaws.txt

"How do you know?"

"I have a memory for phone numbers. You know that. I always have." He did know it, and he cursed himself for playing stupid tricks. He dialed the number.

"Abelard Arms." It was a male voice, young. The night clerk.

"Matt Hooper's room, please."

"You don't happen to know the room number, sir?"

"No." Brody cupped his hand over the mouthpiece and said to Ellen, "You don't happen to know the room number, do you?"

She looked at him, and for a second she didn't answer. Then she shook her head. The clerk said, "Here it is. Four-oh-five."

The phone rang twice before Hooper answered.

"This is Brody."

"Yeah. Hi."

Brody faced the wall, trying to imagine what the room looked like. He conjured visions of a small dark garret, a rumpled bed, stains on the sheets, the smells of rut. He

felt, briefly, that he was going out of his mind. "I guess we're on for tomorrow," he said.

"The weather report is good."

"Yeah, I know."

"Then I'll see you down at the dock."

"What time?"

"Nine-thirty, I guess. Nobody's going to go swim-ruing before then."

"Okay. Nine-thirty."

"Fine. Oh hey, by the way," Brody said, "how did things work out with Daisy Wicker?"

"What?"

Brody wished he hadn't asked the question. "Nothing. I was just curious. You know, about whether you two hit it off."

"Well... yeah, now that you mention it. Is that part of your job, to check up on people's sex life?"

"Forget it. Forget I ever mentioned it." He hung up the phone. Liar, he thought. What the hell is going on here? He turned to Ellen. "I meant to ask you, Martin said something about a beach picnic. When's that?"

"No special time," she said. "It was just a thought."

"Oh." He looked at her, but she didn't return the glance. "I think it's time you got

some sleep."

"Why do you say that?"

"You haven't been feeling well. And that's the second time you've washed that glass." He took a beer from the refrigerator. He yanked the metal tab and it broke off in his hand. "Fuck!" he said, and he threw the full can into the wastebasket and marched out of the room.

Saturday noon, Brody stood on a dune overlooking the Scotch Road beach, feeling half secret agent, half fool. He was wearing a polo shirt and a bathing suit: he had

had to buy one specially for this assignment. He was chagrined at his white legs, nearly hairless after years of chaffing in long pants. He wished Ellen had come with him, to make him feel less conspicuous, but she had begged off, claiming that since he wasn't going to be home over the weekend, this would be a good time to catch up on her housework. In a beach bag by Brody's side were a pair of binoculars, a walkie-talkie, two beers, and a cellophane-wrapped sandwich. Offshore, between a quarter and half a mile, the Flicka moved slowly eastward. Brody watched the boat and said to himself: At least I know where he is today.

The Coast Guard had been right: the day was splendid --cloudless and warm, with a light onshore breeze. The beach was not crowded. A dozen teen-agers were scattered about in their ritual rows. A few couples lay dozing --motionless as corpses, as

if to move would disrupt the cosmic rhythms that generated a tan. A family was gathered file:///C|/My Documents/Mike's Shit/utilities/books/pdf format/Benchley, Peter - Jaws.txt (82 of 131) [1/18/2001 2:02:22 AM]

file:///C|/My Documents/Mike's Shit/utilities/books/pdf format/Benchley, Peter - Jaws.txt around a charcoal fire in the sand, and the scent of grilling hamburger drifted into Brody's

nose.

No one had yet gone swimming. Twice, different sets of parents had led their children to the water's edge and allowed them to wade in the wavewash, but after a few minutes--bored or fearful --the parents had ordered the children back up the beach. Brody heard footsteps crackling in the beach grass behind him, and he turned around. A man and a woman in their late forties, probably, and both grossly overweight --were struggling up the dune, dragging two complaining children behind them. The man wore khakis, a T-shirt, and basketball sneakers. The woman wore a print dress that rode up her wrinkled thighs. In her hand she carried a pair of sandals. Behind them Brody saw a Winnebago camper parked on Scotch Road.

"Can I help you?" Brody said when the couple had reached the top of the dune.

"Is this the beach?" said the woman.

"What beach are you looking for? The public beach is --"

"This is it, awright," said the man, pulling a map out of his pocket. He spoke with

the unmistakable accent of the Queensborough New Yorker. "We turned off Twentyseven and followed this road here. This is it, awright."

"So where's the shark?" said one of the children, a fat boy of about thirteen. "I thought you said we were gonna see a shark."

"Shut up," said his father. He said to Brody, "Where's this hotshot shark?"

"What shark?"

"The shark that's killed all them people. I seen it on TV --on three different channels. There's a shark that kills people. Right here."

"There was a shark here," said Brody. "But it isn't here now. And with any luck, it

won't come back."

The man stared at Brody for a second and then snarled, "You mean we drove all the way out here to see this shark and he's gone? That's not what the TV said."

"I can't help that," said Brody. "I don't know who told you you were going to see that shark. They don't just come up on the beach and shake hands, you know."

"Don't smart-mouth me, buddy."

Brody stood up. "Listen, mister," he said, pulling his wallet from the belt of his

bathing suit and opening it so the man could see his badge. "I'm the chief of police in this

town. I don't know who you are, or who you think you are, but you don't march onto a private beach in Amity and start behaving like a bum. Now state your business or beat it."

The man stopped posturing. "Sorry," he said. "It's just after all that goddam traffic

and the kids screaming in my ear, I thought at least we'd get a look at the shark. That's what we come all the way out here for."

"You drove two and a half hours to see a shark? Why?"

"Something to do. Last weekend we went to Jungle Habitat. We thought maybe this weekend we'd go to the Jersey Shore. But then we heard about the shark out here. The kids never seen a shark before."

"Well, I hope they don't see one today, either."

"Shit," said the man.

"You said we'd see a shark!" whined one of the boys.

"Shut your mouth, Benny!" The man turned back to Brody. "Is it okay if we have lunch here?"

Brody knew he could order the people down to the public beach, but without a resident's parking sticker they would have to park their camper more than a mile from the beach, so he said, "I guess so. If somebody complains, you'll have to move, but I doubt anyone will complain today. Go ahead. But don't leave anything --not a gum wrapper or a matchstick --on the beach, or I'll slap a ticket on you for littering."

"Okay." The man said to his wife, "You got the cooler?"

"I left it in the camper," she said. "I didn't know we'd be staying."

"Shit." The man trudged down the dune, panting. The woman and her two file:///C|/My Documents/Mike's Shit/utilities/books/pdf format/Benchley, Peter - Jaws.txt (83 of 131) [1/18/2001 2:02:22 AM]

file:///C|/My Documents/Mike's Shit/utilities/books/pdf format/Benchley, Peter - Jaws.txt children walked twenty or thirty yards away and sat on the sand. Brody looked at his watch: 12:15. He reached into the beach bag and took out the walkie-talkie. He pushed a button and said, "You there, Leonard?" Then he released the button.

In a moment the reply came back, rasping through the speaker. "I read you, Chief. Over." Hendricks had volunteered to spend the weekend on the public beach, as the third point in the triangle of watch. ("You're getting to be a regular beach bum," Brody had said when Hendricks volunteered. Hendricks had laughed and said, "Sure, Chief. If you're going to live in a place like this, you might as well become a beautiful people.")

"What's up?" said Brody. "Anything going on?"

"Nothing we can't handle, but there is a little problem. People keep coming up to me and trying to give me tickets. Over."

"Tickets for what?"

"To get onto the beach. They say they bought special tickets in town that allow them to come onto the Amity beach. You should see the damn things. I got one right here. It says 'Shark Beach. Admit One. Two-fifty.' All I can figure is some sharpie is making a pretty fine killing selling people tickets they don't need. Over."

"What's their reaction when you turn down their tickets?"

"First, they're mad as hell when I tell them they've been taken, that there's no charge for coming to the beach. Then they get even madder when I tell them that, ticket or no ticket, they can't leave their cars in the parking lot without a parking permit. Over."

"Did any of them tell you who's selling the tickets?"

"Just some guy, they say. They met him on Main Street, and he told them they couldn't get on the beach without a ticket. Over."

"I want to find out who the hell is selling those tickets, Leonard, and I want him

stopped. Go to the phone booth in the parking lot and call headquarters and tell whoever answers that I want a man to go down to Main Street and arrest that bastard. If he comes from out of town, run him out of town. If he lives here, lock him up."

"On what charge? Over."

"I don't care. Think of something. Fraud. Just get him off the streets."

"Okay, Chief."

"Any other problems?"

"No. There are some more of those TV guys here with one of those mobile units, but they're not doing anything except interviewing people. Over."

"About what?"

"Just the standard stuff. You know: Are you Scared to go swimming? What do you think about the shark? All that crap. Over."

"How long have they been there?"

"Most of the morning. I don't know how long they'll hang around, especially since no one's going in the water. Over."

"As long as they're not causing any trouble."

"Nope. Over."

"Okay. Hey, Leonard, you don't have to say 'over' all the time. I can tell when you're finished speaking."

"Just procedure, Chief. Keeps things clear. Over and out." Brody waited a moment, then pushed the button again and said, "Hooper, this is Brody. Anything out there?" There was no answer. "This is Brody calling Hooper. Can you hear me?" He was about to call a third time, when he heard Hooper's voice.

"Sorry. I was out on the stern. I thought I saw some thing."

"What did you see?"

"Nothing. I'm sure it was nothing. My eyes were playing tricks on me."

"What did you think you saw?"

"I can't really describe it. A shadow, maybe. Nothing more. The sunlight can fool you."

"You haven't seen anything else?"

"Not a thing. All morning."

"Let's keep it that way. I'll check with you later."

"Fine. I'll be in front of the public beach in a minute or two." Brody put the walkie-talkie back in the bag and took out his sandwich. The bread file:///C|/My Documents/Mike's Shit/utilities/books/pdf format/Benchley, Peter - Jaws.txt (84 of 131) [1/18/2001 2:02:22 AM]

file:///C|/My Documents/Mike's Shit/utilities/books/pdf format/Benchley, Peter - Jaws.txt was cold and stiff from resting against the ice-filled plastic bag that contained the cans of

beer.

By 2:30, the beach was almost empty. People had gone off to play tennis, to sail, to have their hair done. The only ones left on the beach were half a dozen teen-agers and the family from Queens.

Brody's legs had begun to sunburn --faint red blotches were surfacing on his thighs and the tops of his feet --so he covered them with his towel. He took the walkietalkie out of the bag and called Hendricks. "Anything happening, Leonard?"

"Not a thing, Chief. Over."

"Anybody go swimming?"

"Nope. Wading, but that's about it. Over."

"Same here. What do you hear about the ticket seller?"

"Nothing, but nobody's giving me tickets any more, so I guess somebody ran him off. Over."

"What about the TV people?"

"They're gone. They left a few minutes ago. They wanted to know where you were. Over."

"What for?"

"Beats me. Over."

"Did you tell them?"

"Sure. I didn't see why not. Over."

"Okay. I'll talk to you later." Brody decided to take a walk. He pushed a finger into one of the pink blotches on his thigh. It turned stark white, then flushed angry red when he removed his finger. He stood, wrapped his towel around his waist to keep the sun from his legs, and, carrying the walkie-talkie, strolled toward the water. He heard the sound of a car engine, and he turned and walked to the top of the dune. A white panel truck was parked on Scotch Road. The black lettering on its side said, "WNBC-TV News." The driver's door opened, and a man got out and trudged through the sand toward Brody.

As the man drew closer, Brody thought he looked vaguely familiar. He was young, with long, curly hair and a handlebar moustache.

"Chief Brody?" he said when he was a few steps away.

"That's right."

"They told me you'd be here. I'm Bob Middleton, Channel Four News."

"Are you the reporter?"

"Yeah. The crew's in the truck."

"I thought I'd seen you somewhere. What can I do for you?"

"I'd like to interview you."

"About what?"

"The whole shark business. How you decided to open the beaches." Brody thought for a moment, then said to himself, What the hell: a little publicity

couldn't hurt the town, now that the chances of anything happening --today, at least -are pretty slim. "All right," he said. "Where do you want to do it?"

"Down on the beach. I'll get the crew. It'll take a few minutes to set up, so if you

have something to do, feel free. I'll give a yell when we're ready." Middleton trotted away

toward the truck.

Brody had nothing special to do, but since he had started to take a walk, he thought he might as well take it. He walked down toward the water. As he passed the group of teen-agers, he heard a boy say, "What about it?

Anybody got the guts? Ten bucks is ten bucks."

A girl said, "Come on, Limbo, lay off."

Brody stopped about fifteen feet away, feigning interest in something offshore.

"What for?" said the boy. "It's a pretty good offer. I don't think anybody's got the

guts. Five minutes ago, you were all telling me there's no way that shark's still around here."

file:///C|/My Documents/Mike's Shit/utilities/books/pdf format/Benchley, Peter - Jaws.txt (85 of 131) [1/18/2001 2:02:22 AM]

file:///C|/My Documents/Mike's Shit/utilities/books/pdf format/Benchley, Peter - Jaws.txt Another boy said, "If you're such hot shit, why don't you go in?"

"I'm the one making the offer," said the first boy. "Nobody's gonna pay me ten bucks to go in the water. Well, what do you say?"

There was a moment's silence, and then the other boy said, "Ten bucks? Cash?"

"It's right here," said the first boy, shaking a ten-dollar bill.

"How far out do I have to go?"

"Let's see. A hundred yards. That's a pretty good distance. Okay?"

"How do I know how far a hundred yards is?"

"Guess. Just keep swimming for a while and then stop. If it looks like you're a hundred yards out, I'll wave you back."

"You've got a deal." The boy stood up.

The girl said, "You're crazy, Jimmy. Why do you want to go in the water? You don't need ten dollars."

"You think I'm scared?"

"Nobody said anything about being scared," said the girl. "It's unnecessary, is all."

"Ten bucks is never unnecessary," said the boy, "especially when your old man cuts off your allowance for blowing a little grass at your aunt's wedding." The boy turned and began to jog toward the water. Brody said, "Hey!" and the boy stopped.

"What?"

Brody walked over to the boy. "What are you doing?"

"Going swimming. Who are you?"

Brody took out his wallet and showed the boy his badge. "Do you want to go swimming?" he said. He saw the boy look past him at his friends.

"Sure. Why not? It's legal, isn't it?"

Brody nodded. He didn't know whether the others were out of earshot, so he lowered his voice and said, "Do you want me to order you not to?" The boy looked at him, hesitated for a moment, then shook his head. "No, man. I can use the ten bucks."

"Don't stay in too long," said Brody.

"I won't." The boy scampered into the water. He flung himself over a small wave and began to swim.

Brody heard footsteps running behind him. Bob Middleton dashed past him and called out to the boy, "Hey! Come back!" He waved his arms and called again. The boy stopped swimming and stood up. "What's the matter?"

"Nothing. I want to get some shots of you going into the water. Okay?"

"Sure, I guess so," said the boy. He began to wade back toward shore. Middleton turned to Brody and said, "I'm glad I caught him before he got too far out. At least we'll get somebody swimming out here today." Two men came up beside Brody. One was carrying a 16 mm. camera and a tripod. He wore combat boots, fatigue trousers, a khaki shirt, and a leather vest. The other man was shorter and older and fatter. He wore a rumpled gray suit and carried a rectangular box covered with dials and knobs. Around his neck was a pair of earphones.

"Right there's okay, Walter," said Middleton. "Let me know when you're ready." He took a notebook from his pocket and began to ask the boy some questions. The elderly man walked down to Middleton and handed him a microphone. He backed up to the cameraman, feeding wire off a coil in his hand.

"Anytime," said the cameraman.

"I gotta get a level on the kid," said the man with the earphones.

"Say something," Middleton told the boy, and he held the microphone a few inches from the boy's mouth.

"What do you want me to say?"

"That's good," said the man with the earphones.

"Okay," said Middleton. "We'll start tight, Walter, then go to a two-shot, okay?

Give me speed when you're ready."

The cameraman peered into the eyepiece, raised a finger, and pointed it at Middleton. "Speed," he said.

Middleton looked at the camera and said, "We have been here on the Amity beach since early this morning, and as far as we know, no one has yet dared venture into the water. There has been no sign of the shark, but the threat still lingers. I'm standing file:///C|/My Documents/Mike's Shit/utilities/books/pdf format/Benchley, Peter - Jaws.txt (86 of 131) [1/18/2001 2:02:22 AM]

file:///C|/My Documents/Mike's Shit/utilities/books/pdf format/Benchley, Peter - Jaws.txt here

with Jim Prescott, a young man who has just decided to take a swim. Tell me, Jim, do you have any worries about what might be swimming out there with you?"

"No," said the boy. "I don't think there's anything out there."

"So you're not scared."

"No."

"Are you a good swimmer?"

"Pretty good."

Middleton held out his hand. "Well, good luck, Jim. Thanks for talking to us." The boy shook Middleton's hand. "Yeah," he said.

"What do you want me to do now?"

"Cut!" said Middleton. "We'll take it from the top, Walter. Just a see." He turned

to the boy. "Don't ask that, Jim, okay? After I thank you, just turn around and head for the

water."

"Okay," said the boy. He was shivering, and he rubbed his arms.

"Hey, Bob," said the cameraman. "The kid ought to dry off. He can't look wet if he isn't supposed to have been in the water yet."

"Yeah, you're right," said Middleton. "Can you dry off, Jim?"

"Sure." The boy jogged up to his friends and dried himself with a towel. A voice beside Brody said, "What's goin' on?" It was the man from Queens.

"Television," said Brody. "They want to film somebody swimming."

"Oh yeah? I should of brought my suit."

The interview was repeated, and after Middleton had thanked the boy, the boy ran into the water and began to swim. Middleton walked back to the cameraman and said,

"Keep it going, Walter. Irv, you can kill the sound. We'll probably use this for B-roll."

"How much do you want of this?" said the cameraman, tracking the boy as he swam.

"A hundred feet or so," said Middleton. "But let's stay here till he comes out. Be

ready, just in case."

Brody had become so accustomed to the far-off, barely audible hum of the Flicka's engine that his mind no longer registered it as a sound. It was as integral a part of

the beach as the wave sound. Suddenly the engine's pitch changed from a low murmur to an urgent growl. Brody looked beyond the swimming boy and saw the boat in a tight, fast turn --nothing like the slow, ambling sweeps Hooper made in his normal patrol. He put the walkie-talkie to his mouth and said,

"You see something, Hooper?" Brody saw the boat slow, then stop. Middleton heard Brody speak. "Give me sound, Irv," he said. "Get this, Walter." He walked to Brody and said, "Something going on, Chief?"

"I don't know," said Brody. "That's what I'm trying to find out." He said into the

walkie-talkie, "Hooper?"

"Yes," said Hooper's voice, "but I still don't know what it is. It was that shadow

again. I can't see it now. Maybe my eyes are getting tired."

"You 'get that, Irv?" said Middleton. The sound man shook his head: no.

"There's a kid swimming out there," said Brody.

"Where?" said Hooper.

Middleton shoved the microphone at Brody's face, sliding it between his mouth and the mouthpiece of the walkie-talkie. Brody brushed it aside, but Middleton quickly jammed it back to within an inch of Brody's mouth.

"Thirty, maybe forty yards out. I think I better tell him to come in." Brody tucked

the walkie-talkie into the towel at his waist, cupped his hands around his mouth, and called, "Hey out there! Come on in!"

"Jesus!" said the sound man. "You damn near blew my ears out." The boy did not hear the call. He was swimming straight away from the beach. The boy who had offered the ten dollars heard Brody's call, and he walked down file:///C|/My Documents/Mike's Shit/utilities/books/pdf format/Benchley, Peter - Jaws.txt (87 of 131) [1/18/2001 2:02:22 AM]

file:///C|/My Documents/Mike's Shit/utilities/books/pdf format/Benchley, Peter - Jaws.txt to the water's edge. "What's the trouble now?" he said.

"Nothing," said Brody. "I just think he'd better come in."

"Who are you?"

Middleton stood between Brody and the boy, flipping the microphone back and forth between the two.

"I'm the police chief," Brody said. "Now get your ass out of here!" He turned to Middleton. "And you keep that fucking microphone out of my face, will you?"

"Don't worry, Irv," said Middleton. "We can edit that out." Brody said into the walkie-talkie, "Hooper, he doesn't hear me. You want to toot in here and tell him to come ashore?"

"Sure," said Hooper. "I'll be there in a minute." The fish had sounded now, and was meandering a few feet above the sandy bottom, eighty feet below the Flicka. For hours, its sensory system had been tracking the strange sound above. Twice the fish had risen to within a yard or two of the surface, allowing sight and smell and nerve canals to assess the creature passing noisily overhead.

Twice it had sounded, compelled neither to attack nor move away. Brody saw the boat, which had been facing westward, swing toward shore and kick up a shower of spray from the bouncing bow.

"Get the boat, Walter," said Middleton.

Below, the fish sensed a change in the noise. It grew louder, then faded as the boat moved away. The fish turned, banking as smoothly as an airplane, and followed the receding sound.

The boy stopped swimming, raised his head, and looked toward shore, treading water. Brody waved his arms and yelled, "Come in!" The boy waved back and started for shore. He swam well, rolling his head to the left to catch a breath, kicking in rhythm with

his arm strokes. Brody guessed he was sixty yards from shore and that it would take him a minute or more to reach the beach.

"What's goin' on?" said a voice next to Brody. It was the man from Queens. His two sons stood behind him, smiling eagerly.

"Nothing," said Brody. "I just don't want the boy to get out too far."

"Is it the shark?" asked the father of the two boys.

"Hey, neat," said the other boy.

"Never mind!" said Brody. "Just get back up the beach."

"Come on, Chief," said the man. "We drove all the way out here."

"Beat it!" said Brody.

At fifteen knots, it took Hooper only thirty seconds to cover the couple of hundred

yards and draw near the boy. He stopped a few yards away, letting the engine idle in neutral. He was just beyond the surf line, and he didn't dare go closer for fear of being caught in the waves.

The boy heard the engine, and he raised his head. "What's the matter?" he said.

"Nothing," said Hooper. "Keep swimming." The boy lowered his head and swam. A swell caught him and moved him faster, and with two or three more strokes he was able to stand. The water was up to his shoulders, and he began to plod toward shore.

"Come on!" said Brody.

"I am," said the boy. "What's the problem, anyway?" A few yards behind Brody, Middleton stood with the microphone in his hand.

"What are you on, Walter?" he said.

"The kid," said the cameraman, "and the cop. Both. A two-shot."

"Okay. You running, Irv?"

The sound man nodded.

Middleton spoke into the microphone: "Something is going on, ladies and gentlemen, but we don't know exactly what. All we know for sure is that Jim Prescott went swimming, and then suddenly a man on a boat out there saw something. Now Police Chief Brody is trying to get the boy to come ashore as fast as possible. It could be the shark, but we just don't know."

Hooper put the boat in reverse, to back away from the waves. As he looked off the stern, he saw a silver streak moving in the gray-blue water. It seemed part of the wavefile:///C|/My Documents/Mike's Shit/utilities/books/pdf format/Benchley, Peter - Jaws.txt (88 of 131) [1/18/2001 2:02:22 AM]

file:///C|/My Documents/Mike's Shit/utilities/books/pdf format/Benchley, Peter - Jaws.txt motion, but it moved independently. For a second, Hooper did not realize what he was seeing. And even when the realization struck, he did not see the fish clearly. He cried,

"Look out!"

"What is it?" yelled Brody.

"The fish! Get the kid out! Quick!"

The boy heard Hooper, and he tried to run. But in the chest-deep water his movements were slow and labored. A swell knocked him sideways. He stumbled, then stood and leaned forward.

Brody ran into the water and reached out. A wave hit him in the knees and pushed him back.

Middleton said into the microphone, "The man on the boat just said something about a fish. I don't know if he means a shark."

"Is it the shark?" said the man from Queens, standing next to Middleton. "I don't see it."

Middleton said, "Who are you?"

"Name's Lester Kraslow. You want to interview me?"

"Go away."

The boy was moving faster now, pushing through the water with his chest and arms. He did not see the fin rise behind him, a sharp blade of brownish gray that hovered in the water.

"There it is!" said Kraslow. "See it, Benny? Davey? It's right there."

"I don't see nothin'," said one of his sons.

"There it is, Walter!" said Middleton. "See it?"

"I'm zooming," said the cameraman. "Yeah, I've got it."

"Hurry!" said Brody. He reached for the boy. The boy's eyes were wide and panicked. His nostrils flared, bubbling mucus and water. Brody's hand touched the boy's, and he pulled. He grabbed the boy around the chest, and together they staggered out of the water.

The fin dropped beneath the surface, and following the slope of the ocean floor, the fish moved into the deep.

Brody stood in the sand with his arm around the boy. "Are you okay?" he said.

"I want to go home." The boy shivered.

"I bet you do." Brody started to walk the boy to where his friends were standing, but Middleton intercepted them.

"Can you repeat that for me?" said Middleton.

"Repeat what?"

"Whatever you said to the boy. Can we do that again?"

"Get out of my way!" Brody snapped. He took the boy to his friends, and said to the one who had offered the money, "Take him home. And give him his ten dollars." The boy nodded, pale and scared.

Brody saw his walkie-talkie wallowing in the wavewash. He retrieved it, wiped it free of water, pushed the "talk" button, and said, "Leonard, can you hear me?"

"I read you, Chief. Over."

"The fish has been here. If you've got anybody in the water down there, get them out. Right away. And stay there till we get relief for you. Nobody goes near the water. The beach is officially closed."

"Okay, Chief. Was anybody hurt? Over."

"No, thank God. But almost."

"Okay, Chief. Over and out."

As Brody walked back to where be had left his beach bag, Middleton called to him, "Hey, Chief, can we do that interview now?"

Brody stopped, tempted to tell Middleton to go fuck himself. Instead, he said,

"What do you want to know? You saw it as well as I did."

"Just a couple of questions."

Brody sighed and returned to where Middleton stood with his camera crew. "All right," he said, "go ahead."

"How much have you got left on your roll, Walter?" said Middleton.

"About fifty feet. Make it brief."

"Okay. Give me speed."

"Speed."

"Well, Chief Brody," said Middleton, "that was a lucky break, wouldn't you say?" file:///C|/My Documents/Mike's Shit/utilities/books/pdf format/Benchley, Peter - Jaws.txt (89 of 131) [1/18/2001 2:02:22 AM]

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"It was very lucky. The boy might have died."

"Would you say that's the same shark that killed the people?"

"I don't know," said Brody. "I guess it must be."

"So where do you go from here?"

"The beaches are closed. For the time being, that's all I can do."

"I guess you'd have to say that it isn't yet safe to swim here in Amity."

"I'd have to say that, that's right."

"What does that mean for Amity?"

"Trouble, Mr. Middleton. We are in big trouble."

"In retrospect, Chief, how do you feel about having opened the beaches today?"

"How do I feel? What kind of question is that? Angry, annoyed, confused. Thankful that nobody got hurt. Is that enough?"

"That's just fine, Chief," Middleton said with a smile. "Thank you, Chief Brody." He paused, then said, "Okay, Walter, that'll wrap it. Let's get home and start editing this

mess."

"What about a close?" said the cameraman. "I've got about twenty-five feet left."

"Okay," said Middleton. "Wait'll I think of something profound to say." Brody gathered up his towel and his beach bag and walked over the dune toward his car. When he got to Scotch Road, he saw the family from Queens standing beside their camper.

"Was that the shark that killed the people?" asked the father.

"Who knows?" said Brody. "What's the difference?"

"Didn't look like much to me, just a fin. The boys was kind of disappointed."

"Listen you jerk," Brody said. "A boy almost got killed just now. Are you disappointed that didn't happen?"

"Don't give me that," said the man. "That thing wasn't even close to him. I bet the

whole thing was a put-on for them TV guys."

"Mister, get out of here. You and your whole goddam brood. Get 'em out of here. Now!"

Brody waited while the man loaded his family and their gear into the camper. As he walked away, he heard the man say to his wife, "I figured all the people would be snot-noses out here. I was right. Even the cops."

At six o'clock, Brody sat in his office with Hooper and Meadows. He had already talked to Larry Vaughan, who called --drunk and in tears --and muttered wildly about the ruination of his life. The buzzer on Brody's desk rang, and he picked up the phone.

"Fellow named Bill Whitman to see you, Chief," said Bixby. "Says he's from the New York Times."

"Oh, for... Okay, what the hell. Send him in." The door opened, and Whitman stood in the doorway. He said, "Am I interrupting something?"

"Nothing much," said Brody. "Come on in. You remember Harry Meadows. This is Matt Hooper, from Woods Hole."

"I remember Harry Meadows, all right," said Whitman. "It was thanks to him that I got my ass chewed from one end of Forty-third Street to the other by my boss."

"Why was that?" said Brody.

"Mr. Meadows conveniently forgot to tell me about the attack on Christine Watkins. But he didn't forget to tell his readers."

"Must have slipped my mind," said Meadows.

"What can we do for you?" said Brody.

"I was wondering," said Whitman, "if you're sure this is the same fish that killed

the others."

Brody gestured toward Hooper, who said, "I can't be positive. I never saw the fish

that killed the others, and I didn't really get a look at the one today. All I saw was a flash,

sort of silvery gray. I know what it was, but I couldn't compare it to anything else. All file:///C|/My Documents/Mike's Shit/utilities/books/pdf format/Benchley, Peter - Jaws.txt (90 of 131) [1/18/2001 2:02:22 AM]

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have to go on is probability, and in all probability it's the same fish. It's too far-fetched --for me, anyway --to believe that there are two big man-eating sharks off southern Long Island at the same time."

Whitman said to Brody, "What are you going to do, Chief'? I mean, beyond closing the beaches, which I gather has already been done."

"I don't know. What can we do? Christ, I'd rather have a hurricane. Or even an earthquake. At least after they happen, they're over and done with. You can look around and see what's been done and what has to be done. They're events, something you can handle. They have beginnings and ends. This is crazy. It's as if there was a maniac running around loose, killing people whenever he felt like it. You know who he is, but you can't catch him and you can't stop him. And what makes it worse, you don't know why he's doing it."

Meadows said, "Remember Minnie Eldridge."

"Yeah," said Brody. "I'm beginning to think she may have something, after all."

"Who's that?" said Whitman.

"Nobody. Just some nut."

For a moment there was silence, an exhausted silence, as if everything that needed

to be said had been said. Then Whitman said, "Well?"

"Well what?" said Brody.

"There must be someplace to go from here, something to do."

"I'd be happy to hear any suggestions. Personally, I think we're fucked. We're going to be lucky if there's a town left after this summer."

"Isn't that a bit of an exaggeration?"

"I don't think so. Do you, Harry?"

"Not really," said Meadows. "The town survives on its summer people, Mr. Whitman. Call it parasitic, if you will, but that's the way it is. The host animal comes every summer, and Amity feeds on it furiously, pulling every bit of sustenance it can before the host leaves again after Labor Day. Take away the host animal, and we're like dog ticks with no dog to feed on. We starve. At the least --the very least --next winter is

going to be the worst in the history of this town. We're going to have so many people on the dole that Amity will look like Harlem." He chuckled. "Harlem-by-the-Sea."

"What I'd give my ass to know," said Brody, "is why us? Why Amity? Why not East Hampton or Southampton or Quogue?"

"That," said Hooper, "is something we'll never know."

"Why?" said Whitman.

"I don't want to sound like I'm making excuses for misjudging that fish," said Hooper, "but the line between the natural and the preternatural is very cloudy. Natural things occur, and for most of them there's a logical explanation. But for a whole lot of things there's just no good or sensible answer. Say two people are swimming, one in front of the other, and a shark comes up from behind, passes right beside the guy in the rear, and attacks the guy in front. Why? Maybe they smelled different. Maybe the one in front was swimming in a more provocative way. Say the guy in back, the one who wasn't attacked, goes to help the one who was attacked. The shark may not touch him --may actually avoid him --while he keeps banging away at the guy he did hit. White sharks are supposed to prefer colder water. So why does one turn up off the coast of Mexico, strangled by a human corpse that he couldn't quite swallow? In a way, sharks are like tornadoes. They touch down here, but not there. They wipe out this house but suddenly veer away and miss the house next door. The guy in the house that's wiped out says, 'Why me?' The guy in the house that's missed says, 'Thank God.'"

"All right," said Whitman. "But what I still don't get is why the shark can't be caught."

"Maybe it can be," said Hooper. "But I don't think by us. At least not with the equipment we have here. I suppose we could try chumming again."

"Yeah," said Brody. "Ben Gardner can tell us all about chumming."

"Do you know anything about some fellow named Quint?" said Whitman.

"I've heard the name," Brody said. "Did you ever look into the guy, Harry?"

"I read what little there was. As far as I know, he's never done anything file:///C|/My Documents/Mike's Shit/utilities/books/pdf format/Benchley, Peter - Jaws.txt (91 of 131) [1/18/2001 2:02:22 AM]

file:///C|/My Documents/Mike's Shit/utilities/books/pdf format/Benchley, Peter - Jaws.txt illegal."

"Well," said Brody, "maybe it's worth a call."

"You're joking," said Hooper. "You'd really do business with this guy?"

"I'll tell you what, Hooper. At this point, if someone came in here and said he was

Superman and he could piss that shark away from here, I'd say fine and dandy. I'd even hold his dick for him."

"Yeah, but..."

Brody cut him off. "What do you say, Harry? You think he's in the phone book?"

"You really are serious," said Hooper.

"You bet your sweet ass. You got any better ideas?"

"No, it's just... I don't know. How do we know the guy isn't a phony or a drunk or

something?"

"We'll never know till we try." Brody took a phone book from the top drawer of his desk and opened it to the Qs. He ran his finger down the page. "Here it is. 'Quint.'

That's all it says. No first name. But it's the only one on the page. Must be him." He dialed the number.

"Quint," said a voice.

"Mr. Quint, this is Martin Brody. I'm the chief of police over in Amity. We have a

problem."

"I've heard."

"The shark was around again today."

"Anybody get et?"

"No, but one boy almost did."

"Fish that big needs a lot of food," said Quint.

"Have you seen the fish?"

"Nope. Looked for him a couple times, but I couldn't spend too much time looking. My people don't spend their money for looking. They want action."

"How did you know how big it is?"

"I hear tell. Sort of averaged out the estimates and took off about eight feet. That's

still a piece of fish you got there."

"I know. What I'm wondering is whether you can help us."

"I know. I thought you might call."

"Can you?"

"That depends."

"On what?"

"On how much you're willing to spend, for one thing."

"We'll pay whatever the going rate is. Whatever you charge by the day. We'll pay you by the day until we kill the thing."

"I don't think so," said Quint. "I think this is a premium job."

"What does that mean?"

"My everyday rate's two hundred a day. But this is special. I think you'll pay double."

"Not a chance."

"Good-by."

"Wait a minute! Come on, man. Why are you holding me up?"

"You got no place else to go."

"There are other fishermen."

Brody heard Quint laugh --a short, derisive bark.

"Sure there are," said Quint. "You already sent one. Send another one. Send half a

dozen more. Then when you come back to me again, maybe you'll even pay triple. I got nothing to lose by waiting."

"I'm not asking for any favors," Brody said. "I know you've got a living to make. But this fish is killing people. I want to stop it. I want to save lives. I want your help.

Can't you at least treat me the way you treat regular clients?"

"You're breaking my heart," said Quint. "You got a fish needs killing, I'll try file:///C|/My Documents/Mike's Shit/utilities/books/pdf format/Benchley, Peter - Jaws.txt (92 of 131) [1/18/2001 2:02:22 AM]

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kill it for you. No guarantees, but I'll do my best. And my best is worth four hundred dollars a day."

Brody sighed. "I don't know that the selectmen will give me the money."

"You'll find it somewhere."

"How long do you think it'll take to catch the fish?"

"A day, a week, a month. Who knows? We may never find him. He may go away."

"Don't I wish," said Brody. He paused. "Okay," he said finally. "I guess we don't have any choice."

"No, you don't."

"Can you start tomorrow?"

"Nope. Monday's the earliest. I got a party tomorrow."

"A party? What do you mean, a dinner party?" Quint laughed again, the same piercing bark. "A charter party," he said. "You don't do much fishing."

Brody blushed. "No, that's right. Can't you cancel them? If we're paying all that money, it seems to me we deserve a little special service."

"Nope. They're regular customers. I couldn't do that to them or I'd lose their business. You're just a one-shot deal."

"Suppose you run into the big fish tomorrow. Will you try to catch him?"

"That would save you a lot of money, wouldn't it? We won't see your fish. We're going due east. Terrific fishing due east. You oughta try it sometime."

"You had it all figured out, right?"

"There's one more thing," said Quint. "I'm gonna need a man with me. I lost my mate, and I wouldn't feel comfortable taking on that big a fish without an extra pair of hands."

"Lost your mate? What, overboard?"

"No, he quit. He got nerves. Happens to most people after a while in this work. They get to thinking too much."

"But it doesn't happen to you."

"No. I know I'm smarter 'n the fish."

"And that's enough, just being smarter?"

"Has been so far. I'm still alive. What about it? You got a man for me?"

"You can't find another mate?"

"Not this quick, and not for this kind of work."

"Who are you going to use tomorrow?"

"Some kid. But I won't take him out after a big white."

"I can understand that," said Brody, beginning to doubt the wisdom of approaching Quint for help. He added casually, "I'll be there, you know." He was shocked by the words as soon as he said them, appalled at what he had committed himself to do.

"You? Ha!"

Brody smarted under Quint's derision. "I can handle myself," he said.

"Maybe. I don't know you. But you can't handle a big fish if you don't know nothing about fishing. Can you swim?"

"Of course. What has that got to do with anything?"

"People fall overboard, and sometimes it takes a while to swing around and get to

'em."

"Don't worry about me."

"Whatever you say. But I still need a man who knows something about fishing. Or at least about boats."

Brody looked across his desk at Hooper. The last thing he wanted was to spend days on a boat with Hooper, especially in a situation in which Hooper would outrank him in knowledge, if not authority. He could send Hooper alone and stay ashore himself. But that, he felt, would be capitulating, admitting finally and irrevocably his inability to face

and conquer the strange enemy that was waging war on his town. Besides, maybe --over the course of a long day on a boat --Hooper might make a slip that would reveal what he had been doing last Wednesday, the day it rained. Brody was becoming obsessed with finding out where Hooper was that day, for whenever he allowed himself to consider the various alternatives, the one on which his mind always file:///C|/My Documents/Mike's Shit/utilities/books/pdf format/Benchley, Peter - Jaws.txt (93 of 131) [1/18/2001 2:02:22 AM]

file:///C|/My Documents/Mike's Shit/utilities/books/pdf format/Benchley, Peter - Jaws.txt settled was the one he most dreaded. He wanted to know that Hooper was at the movies, or playing backgammon at the Field Club, or smoking dope with some hippie, or laying some Girl Scout. He didn't care what it was, as long as he could know that Hooper had not been with Ellen. Or that he had been. In that case... ? The thought was still too wretched to cope with.

He cupped his hand over the mouthpiece and said to Hooper, "Do you want to come along? He needs a mate."

"He doesn't even have a mate? What a half-assed operation."

"Never mind that. Do you want to come or not?"

"Yes," said Hooper. "I'll probably live to regret it, but yes. I want to see that fish,

and I guess this is my only chance." Brody said to Quint, "Okay, I've got your man."

"Does he know boats?"

"He knows boats."

"Monday morning, six o'clock. Bring whatever you want to eat. You know how to get here?"

"Route 27 to the turnoff for Promised Land, right?"

"Yeah. It's called Cranberry Hole Road. Straight into town. About a hundred yards past the last houses, take a left on a dirt road."

"Is there a sign?"

"No, but it's the only road around here. Leads right to my dock."

"Yours the only boat there?"

"Only one. It's called the Orca."

"All right. See you Monday."

"One more thing," said Quint. "Cash. Every day. In advance."

"Okay, but how come?"

"That's the way I do business. I don't want you falling overboard with my money."

"All right," said Brody. "You'll have it." He hung up and said to Hooper,

"Monday, six A.M., okay?"

"Okay."

Meadows said, "Do I gather from your conversation that you're going, too, Martin?" Brody nodded. "It's my job."

"I'd say it's a bit beyond the call."

"Well, it's done now."

"What's the name of his boat?" asked Hooper.

"I think he said Orca," said Brody. "I don't know what it means."

"It doesn't mean anything. It is something. It's a killer whale." Meadows, Hooper, and Whitman rose to go. "Good luck," said Whitman. "I kind of envy you your trip. It should be exciting."

"I can do without excitement," said Brody. "I just want to get the damn thing over

with."

At the door, Hooper turned and said, "Thinking of orca reminds me of something. You know what Australians call great white sharks?"

"No," said Brody, not really interested. "What?"

"White death."

"You had to tell me, didn't you?" Brody said as he closed the door behind them. He was on his way out when the night desk man stopped him and said, "You had a call before, Chief, while you were inside. I didn't think I should bother you."

"Who was it?"

"Mrs. Vanghan."

"Mrs. Vaughan!" As far as Brody could remember, he had never in his life talked to Eleanor Vanghan on the telephone.

"She said not to disturb you, that it could wait."

"I'd better call her. She's so shy that if her house was burning down, she'd call the

fire department and apologize for bothering them and ask if there was a chance they could stop by the next time they were in the neighborhood." As he walked back into his office, Brody recalled something Vaughan had told him about Eleanor: whenever she wrote a check for an even-dollar amount, she refused to write "and 00/100." She felt it file:///C|/My Documents/Mike's Shit/utilities/books/pdf format/Benchley, Peter - Jaws.txt (94 of 131) [1/18/2001 2:02:22 AM]

file:///C|/My Documents/Mike's Shit/utilities/books/pdf format/Benchley, Peter - Jaws.txt would be an insult, as if she were suggesting that the person who cashed the check might try to steal a few cents.

Brody dialed the Vaughans' home number, and Eleanor Vaughan answered before the phone had rung once. She's been sitting right by the phone, Brody thought. "Martin Brody, Eleanor. You called."

"Oh yes. I do hate to bother you, Martin. If you'd rather --"

"No, it's perfectly okay. What's on your mind?"

"It's... well, the reason I'm calling you is that I know Larry talked with you earlier.

I thought you might know if... if anything's wrong."

Brody thought: She doesn't know anything, not a thing. Well, I'm damned if I'm going to tell her. "Why? What do you mean?"

"I don't know how to say this exactly, but... well, Larry doesn't drink much, you know. Very rarely, at least at home."

"And?"

"This evening, when he came home, he didn't say anything. He just went into his study and --I think, at least --he drank almost a whole bottle of whiskey. He's asleep now, in a chair."

"I wouldn't worry about it, Eleanor. He's probably got things on his mind. We all tie one on now and then."

"I know. It's only... something is wrong. I can tell. He hasn't acted like himself for

several days now. I thought that perhaps... you're his friend. Do you know what it could be?"

His friend, Brody thought. That's what Vaughan had said, too, but he had known better. "We used to be friends," he had said. "No, Eleanor, I don't," he lied. "I'll talk to

him about it, though, if you like."

"Would you, Martin? I'd appreciate that. But... please... don't tell him I called you.

He's never wanted me to meddle in his affairs."

"I won't. Don't worry. Try to get some sleep."

"Will he be all right in the chair?"

"Sure. Just take off his shoes and throw a blanket over him. He'll be fine." Paul Loeffler stood behind the counter of his delicatessen and looked at his watch.

"It's quarter to nine," he said to his wife, a plump, pretty woman named Rose, who was arranging boxes of butter in a refrigerator. "What do you say we cheat and close up fifteen minutes early?"

"After a day like today I agree," said Rose. "Eighteen pounds of bologna! Since when have we ever moved eighteen pounds of bologna in one day?"

"And the Swiss cheese," said Loeffler. "When did we ever run out of Swiss cheese before? A few more days like this I could use. Roast beef, liverwurst, everything. It's like everybody from Brooklyn Heights to East Hampton stopped by for sandwiches."

"Brooklyn Heights, my eye. Pennsylvania. One man said he had come all the way from Pennsylvania. Just to see a fish. They don't have fish in Pennsylvania?"

"Who knows?" said Loeffler. "It's getting to be like Coney Island."

"The public beach must look like a dump."

"It's worth it. We deserve one or two good days."

"I heard the beaches are closed again," said Rose.

"Yeah. Like I always say, when it rains it pours."

"What are you talking about?"

"I don't know. Let's close up."