Jaws

by Peter Benchley

“No. The only ones I called were the four in there.”

  “Push the button.” Janet pushed the button, and Brody said, “Brody.”

  Inside his office, Vaughan saw the light stop flashing, and he gently eased his finger off the receiver hook and placed his hand over the mouthpiece. He looked around the room, searching each face for a challenge. No one returned his gaze—not even Hooper, who had decided that the less he was involved in the affairs of Amity, the better off he would be.

  “It’s Harry, Martin,” said Meadows. “I know you’re in a meeting and I know you’ve got to get back to it. So just listen. I’ll be brief. Larry Vaughan is up to his tail in hock.”

  “I don’t believe it.”

  “Listen, I said! The fact that he’s in debt doesn’t mean anything. It’s who he’s in debt to that matters. A long time ago, maybe twenty-five years, before Larry had any money, his wife got sick. I don’t remember what she had, but it was serious. And expensive. My memory’s a little hazy on this, but I remember him saying afterward that he had been helped out by a friend, gotten a loan to pull him through. It must have been for several thousand dollars. Larry told me the man’s name. I wouldn’t have thought anything about it, but Larry said something about the man being willing to help out people in trouble. I was young then, and I didn’t have any money either. So I made a note of the name and stuck it away in my files. It never occurred to me to look it up again until you asked me to start snooping. The name was Tino Russo.”

  “Get to the point, Harry.”

  “I am. Now jump to the present. A couple of months ago, before this shark thing ever began, a company was formed called Caskata Estates. It’s a holding company. At the beginning, it had no real assets. The first thing it bought was a big potato field just north of Scotch Road. When the summer didn’t shape up well, Caskata began to buy a few more properties. It was all perfectly legitimate. The company obviously has cash behind it—somewhere—and it was taking advantage of the down market to pick up properties at low prices. But then—as soon as the first newspaper reports about the shark thing came out—Caskata really started buying. The lower real estate prices fell, the more they bought. All very quietly. Prices are so low now that it’s almost like during the war, and Caskata’s still buying. Very little money down. All short-term promissory notes. Signed by Larry Vaughan, who is listed as the president of Caskata. The executive vice-president of Caskata Estates is Tino Russo, who the Times has been listing for years as a second-echelon crumb in one of the five Mafia families in New York.”

  Brody whistled through his teeth. “And the sonofabitch has been moaning about how nobody’s been buying anything from him. I still don’t understand why he’s being pressured to open the beaches.”

  “I’m not sure. I’m not even sure he’s still being pressured. He may be arguing out of personal desperation. I imagine he’s way overextended. He couldn’t buy anything more no matter how low the prices go. The only way he can get out without being ruined is if the market turns around and the prices go up. Then he can sell what he’s bought and get the profit. Or Russo can get the profit, however the deal’s worked out. If prices keep going down—in other words, if the town is still officially unsafe—his notes are going to come due. He can’t possibly meet them. He’s probably got over half a million out now in cash down payments. He’ll lose his cash, and the properties will either revert to the original owners or else get picked up by Russo if he can raise the cash. I don’t imagine Russo would want to take the risk. Prices might keep going down, and then he’d take a bath along with Vaughan. My guess is that Russo still has hopes of big profits, but the only way he has a chance of getting them is if Vaughan forces the beaches open. Then, if nothing happens—if the shark doesn’t kill anybody else—before long prices will go up and Vaughan can sell out. Russo will take his cut—half the gross or whatever—and Caskata will be dissolved. Vaughan will get what’s left, probably enough to keep him from being ruined. If the shark does kill someone else, then the only one who gets screwed is Vaughan. As far as I can tell, Russo doesn’t have a nickel in cash in this outfit. It’s all—”

  “You’re a goddamned liar, Meadows!” Vaughan’s voice shrieked into the phone. “You print one word of that crap and I’ll sue you to death!” There was a click as Vaughan slammed down the phone.

  “So much for the integrity of our elected officials,” said Meadows.

  “What are you going to do, Harry? Can you print anything?”

  “No, at least not yet. I can’t document enough. You know as well as I do that the mob is getting more and more involved in Long Island—the construction business, restaurants, everything. But it’s hard as hell to prove an actual illegality. In Vaughan’s case, I’m not sure there’s anything illegal going on, in the strict sense of the word. In a few days, with a little more digging, I should be able to put together a piece saying that Vaughan has been associating with a known mobster. I mean a piece that will hold up if Vaughan ever did try to sue.”

  “It sounds to me like you’ve got enough now,” said Brody.

  “I have the knowledge, but not the proof. I don’t have the documents, or even copies of them. I’ve seen them, but that’s all.”

  “Do you think any of the selectmen are in on the deal? Larry loaded this meeting against me.”

  “No. You mean Catsoulis and Conover? They’re just old buddies who owe Larry a favor or two. If Thatcher’s there, he’s too old and too scared to say a word against Larry. And Lopez is straight. He’s really concerned about jobs for his people.”

  “Does Hooper know any of this? He’s making a pretty strong case for opening the beaches.”

  “No, I’m pretty sure he doesn’t. I only wrapped it up myself a few minutes ago, and there are still a lot of loose threads.”

  “What do you think I ought to do? I may have quit already. I offered them my job before I came out to take your call.”

  “Christ, don’t quit. First of all, we need you. If you quit, Russo will get together with Vaughan and handpick your successor. You may think all your troops are honest, but I’ll bet Russo could find one who wouldn’t mind exchanging a little integrity for a few dollars—or even just for a shot at the chief’s job.”

  “So where does that leave me?”

  “If I were you, I’d open the beaches.”

  “For God’s sake, Harry, that’s what they want! I might as well go on their payroll.”

  “You said yourself that there’s a strong argument for opening the beaches. I think Hooper’s right. You’re going to have to open them sometime, even if we never see that fish again. You might as well do it now.”

  “And let the mob take their money and run.”

  “What else can you do? You keep them closed, and Vaughan’ll find a way to get rid of you and he’ll open them himself. Then you’ll be no use whatever. To anybody. At least this way, if you open the beaches and nothing happens, the town might have a chance. Then, maybe later, we can find a way to pin something on Vaughan. I don’t know what, but maybe there’ll be something.”

  “Shit,” said Brody. “All right, Harry, I’ll think about it. But if I open them, I’m gonna do it my way. Thanks for the call.” He hung up and went into Vaughan’s office.

  Vaughan was standing at the southerly window, his back to the door. When he heard Brody walk in, he said, “The meeting’s over.”

  “What do you mean, over?” said Catsoulis. “We ain’t decided a fuckin’ thing.”

  Vaughan spun around and said, “It’s over, Tony! Don’t give me any trouble. It’ll work out the way we want. Just give me a chance to have a little chat with the chief. Okay? Now everybody out.”

  Hooper and the four selectmen left the office. Brody watched Vaughan as he ushered them out. He knew he should feel pity for Vaughan, but he couldn’t suppress the contempt that flowed over him. Vaughan shut the door, walked over to the couch, and sat down heavily. He rested his elbows on his knees and rubbed his temples with his fingerti
ps. “We were friends, Martin,” he said. “I hope we can be again.”

  “How much of what Meadows said is true?”

  “I won’t tell you. I can’t. Suffice it to say that a man once did a favor for me and now he wants me to repay the favor.”

  “In other words, all of it.”

  Vaughan looked up, and Brody saw that his eyes were red and wet. “I swear to you, Martin, if I had any idea how far this would go, I’d never have gotten into it.”

  “How much are you into him for?”

  “The original amount was ten thousand. I tried to pay it back twice, a long time ago, but I could never get them to cash my checks. They kept saying it was a gift, not to worry about it. But they never gave me back my marker. When they came to me a couple of months ago, I offered them a hundred thousand dollars—cash. They said it wasn’t enough. They didn’t want the money. They wanted me to make a few investments. Everybody’d be a winner, they said.”

  “And how much are you out now?”

  “God knows. Every cent I have. More than every cent. Probably close to a million dollars.” Vaughan took a deep breath. “Can you help me, Martin?”

  “The only thing I can do for you is put you in touch with the D.A. If you’d testify, you might be able to slap a loan-sharking rap on these guys.”

  “I’d be dead before I got home from the D.A.’s office, and Eleanor would be left without anything. That’s not the kind of help I meant.”

  “I know.” Brody looked down at Vaughan, a huddled, wounded animal, and he did feel compassion for him. He began to doubt his own opposition to opening the beaches. How much of it was the residue of prior guilt, how much fear of another attack? How much was he indulging himself, playing it safe, and how much was prudent concern for the town? “I’ll tell you what, Larry. I’ll open the beaches. Not to help you, because I’m sure if I didn’t open them you’d find a way to get rid of me and open them yourself. I’ll open the beaches because I’m not sure I’m right anymore.”

  “Thanks, Martin. I appreciate that.”

  “I’m not finished. Like I said, I’ll open them. But I’m going to post men on the beaches. And I’m going to have Hooper patrol in the boat. And I’m going to make sure every person who comes down there knows the danger.”

  “You can’t do that!” Vaughan said. “You might as well leave the damn things closed.”

  “I can do it, Larry, and I will.”

  “What are you going to do? Post signs warning of a killer shark? Put an ad in the newspaper saying ‘Beaches Open—Stay Away’? Nobody’s going to go to the beach if it’s crawling with cops.”

  “I don’t know what I’m going to do. But something. I’m not going to make believe nothing ever happened.”

  “All right, Martin.” Vaughan rose. “You don’t leave me much choice. If I got rid of you, you’d probably go down to the beach as a private citizen and run up and down yelling ‘Shark!’ So all right. But be subtle—if not for my sake, for the town’s.”

  Brody left the office. As he walked down the stairs, he looked at his watch. It was past one o’clock, and he was hungry. He went down Water Street to Loeffler’s, Amity’s only delicatessen. It was owned by Paul Loeffler, a classmate of Brody’s in high school.

  As Brody pulled open the glass door, he heard Loeffler say, “… like a goddam dictator, if you ask me. I don’t know what’s his problem.” When he saw Brody, Loeffler blushed. He had been a skinny kid in high school, but as soon as he had taken over his father’s business, he had succumbed to the terrible temptations that surrounded him for twelve hours of every day of every week, and nowadays he looked like a pear.

  Brody smiled. “You weren’t talking about me, were you, Paulie?”

  “What makes you think that?” said Loeffler, his blush deepening.

  “Nothing. Never mind. If you’ll make me a ham and Swiss on rye with mustard, I’ll tell you something that will make you happy.”

  “That I have to hear.” Loeffler began to assemble Brody’s sandwich.

  “I’m going to open the beaches for the Fourth.”

  “That makes me happy.”

  “Business bad?”

  “Bad.”

  “Business is always bad with you.”

  “Not like this. If it doesn’t get better soon, I’m gonna be the cause of a race riot.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m supposed to hire two delivery boys for the summer. I’m committed. But I can’t afford two. Let alone I don’t have enough work for two, the way things are. So I can only hire one. One’s white and one’s black.”

  “Which one are you hiring?”

  “The black one. I figure he needs the money more. I just thank God the white one isn’t Jewish.”

  Brody arrived home at 5:10. As he pulled into the driveway, the back door to the house opened, and Ellen ran toward him. She had been crying, and she was still visibly upset.

  “What’s the matter?” he said.

  “Thank God you’re home. I tried to reach you at work, but you had already left. Come here. Quick.” She took him by the hand and led him past the back door to the shed where they kept the garbage cans. “In there,” she said, pointing to a can. “Look.”

  Brody removed the lid from the can. Lying in a twisted heap atop a bag of garbage was Sean’s cat—a big, husky tom named Frisky. The cat’s head had been twisted completely around, and the yellow eyes overlooked its back.

  “How the hell did that happen?” said Brody. “A car?”

  “No, a man.” Ellen’s breath came in sobs. “A man did it to him. Sean was right there when it happened. The man got out of a car over by the curb. He picked up the cat and twisted its head until the neck broke. Sean said it made a horrible snap. Then he dropped the cat on the lawn and got back in his car and drove away.”

  “Did he say anything?”

  “I don’t know. Sean’s inside. He’s hysterical, and I don’t blame him. Martin, what’s happening?”

  Brody slammed the top back on the can. “Goddamn sonofabitch!” he said. His throat felt tight, and he clenched his teeth, popping the muscles on both sides of his jaw. “Let’s go inside.”

  Five minutes later, Brody marched out the back door. He tore the lid off the garbage can and threw it aside. He reached in and pulled out the cat’s corpse. He took it to his car, pitched it through the open window, and climbed in. He backed out of the driveway and screeched away. A hundred yards down the road, in a burst of fury, he turned on his siren.

  It took him only a couple of minutes to reach Vaughan’s house, a large, Tudor-style stone mansion on Sprain Drive, just off Scotch Road. He got out of the car, dragging the dead cat by one of its hind legs, mounted the front steps, and rang the bell. He hoped Eleanor Vaughan wouldn’t answer the door.

  The door opened, and Vaughan said, “Hello, Martin. I …”

  Brody raised the cat and pushed it toward Vaughan’s face. “What about this, you cocksucker?”

  Vaughan’s eyes widened. “What do you mean? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “One of your friends did this. Right in my front yard, right in front of my kid. They murdered my fucking cat! Did you tell them to do that?”

  “Don’t be crazy, Martin.” Vaughan seemed genuinely shocked. “I’d never do anything like that. Never.”

  Brody lowered the cat and said, “Did you call your friends after I left?”

  “Well … yes. But just to say that the beaches would be open tomorrow.”

  “That’s all you said?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “You lying fuck!” Brody hit Vaughan in the chest with the cat and let it fall to the floor. “You know what the guy said after he strangled my cat? You know what he told my eight-year-old boy?”

  “No. Of course I don’t know. How would I know?”

  “He said the same thing you did. He said: ‘Tell your old man this—“Be subtle.” ’ ”

  Brody turned and walked down th
e steps, leaving Vaughan standing over the gnarled bundle of bone and fur.

  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?”