Jaws by Peter Benchley
“It’s six-five-four-three,” said Ellen.
“What is?”
“The Abelard. That’s the number: six-five-four-three.”
“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 swimming 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 on people’s sex lives?”
“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 chafing 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 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 Queens Borough New Yorker. “We turned off Twenty-seven 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 match-stick—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 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. H
“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 something.”
“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 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 walkie-talkie out of the bag and called Hendricks. “Anything happened, 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 anymore, 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.”
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 c
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 the 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.