Jaws (26 page)

"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."

PART 3

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

Chapter 11

The sea was as flat as gelatin. There was no whisper of wind to ripple the surface. The sun sucked shimmering waves of heat from the water. Now and then, a passing tern would plunge for food, and rise again, and the wavelets from its dive became circles that grew without cease.

The boat sat still in the water, drifting imperceptibly in the tide. Two fishing rods,

in rod-holders at the stern, trailed wire line into the oily slick that spread westward behind

the boat. Hooper sat at the stern, a twenty-gallon garbage pail at his side. Every few seconds, he dipped a ladle into the pail and spilled it overboard into the slick. Forward, in two rows that peaked at the bow, lay ten wooden barrels the size of quarter kegs of beer. Each was wrapped in several thicknesses of three-quarter-inch hemp, which continued in a hundred-foot coil beside the barrel. Tied to the end of each rope was the steel head of a harpoon.

Brody sat in the swiveled fighting chair bolted to the deck, trying to stay awake.

He was hot and sticky. There had been no breeze at all during the six hours they had been sitting and waiting. The back of his neck was already badly sunburned, and every time he moved his head the collar of his uniform shirt raked the tender skin. His body odor rose to his face and, blended with the stench of the fish guts and blood being ladled overboard,

nauseated him. He felt poached.

Brody looked up at the figure on the flying bridge: Quint. He wore a white Tshirt, faded blue-jean trousers, white socks, and a pair of graying Top-Sider sneakers. Brody guessed Quint was about fifty, and though surely he had once been twenty and would one day be sixty, it was impossible to imagine what he would look like at either of those ages. His present age seemed the age he should always be, should always have been. He was about six feet four and very lean --perhaps 180 or 190 pounds. His head was totally bald --not shaven, for there were no telltale black specks on his scalp, but as

bald as if he had never had any hair --and when, as now, the sun was high and hot, he wore a Marine Corps fatigue cap. His face, like the rest of him, was hard and sharp. It was ruled by a long, straight nose. When he looked down from the flying bridge, he seemed to aim his eyes --the darkest eyes Brody had ever seen --along the nose as if it were a rifle barrel. His skin was permanently browned and creased by wind and salt and sun. He gazed off the stern, rarely blinking, his eyes fixed on the slick. A trickle of sweat running down Brody's chest made him stir. He turned his head, wincing at the sting in his neck, and tried to stare at the slick. But the reflection of the sun

on the water hurt his eyes, and he turned away. "I don't see how you do it, Quint," he said. "Don't you ever wear sunglasses?"

Quint looked down and said, "Never." His tone was completely neutral, neither friendly nor unfriendly. It did not invite conversation.

But Brody was bored, and he wanted to talk. "How come?"

"No need to. I see things the way they are. That's better." Brody looked at his watch. It was a little after two: three or four more hours before they would give up for the day and go home. "Do you have a lot of days like this?" The excitement and anticipation of the early morning had long passed, and Brody was sure they would not sight the fish that day.

"Like what?"

"Like this. When you sit all day long and nothing happens."

"Some."

"And people pay you even though they never catch a thing."

"Those are the rules."

"Even if they never get a bite?"

Quint nodded. "That doesn't happen too often. There's generally something that'll take a bait. Or something we can stick."

"Stick?"

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

"With an iron." Quint pointed to the harpoons on the bow. Hooper said, "What kinds of things do you stick, Quint?"

"Anything that swims by."

"Really? I don't --"

Quint cut him off. "Something's taking one of the baits." Shading his eyes with his hand, Brody looked off the stern, but as far as he could

see, the slick was undisturbed, the water flat and calm. "Where?" he said.

"Wait a second," said Quint. "You'll see." With a soft metallic hiss, the wire on the starboard fishing rod began to feed overboard, knifing into the water in a straight silver line.

"Take the rod," Quint said to Brody. "And when I tell you, throw the brake and hit

him."

"Is it the shark?" said Brody. The possibility that at last he was going to confront

the fish --the beast, the monster, the nightmare --made Brody's heart pound. His mouth was sticky-dry. He wiped his hands on his trousers, took the rod out of the holder, and stuck it in the swivel between his legs.

Quint laughed --a short, sour yip. "That thing? No. That's just a little fella. Give

you some practice for when your fish finds us." Quint watched the line for a few more seconds, then said, "Hit it!"

Brody pushed the small lever on the reel forward, leaned down, then pulled back. The tip of the rod bent into an arc. With his right hand, Brody began to turn the crank to

reel in the fish, but the reel did not respond. The line kept speeding out.

"Don't waste your energy," said Quint.

Hooper, who had been sitting on the transom, stood up and said, "Here, I'll tighten

down the drag."

"You will not!" said Quint. "You leave that rod alone." Hooper looked up, bewildered and slightly hurt.

Brody noticed Hooper's pained expression, and he thought: What do you know?

It's about time.

After a moment, Quint said, "You tighten the drag down too far and you'll tear the

hook out of his mouth."

"Oh," said Hooper.

"I thought you was supposed to know something about fishing." Hooper said nothing. He turned and sat down on the transom. Brody held on to the rod with both hands. The fish had gone deep and was moving slowly from side to side, but it was no longer taking line. Brody reeled -leaning forward and cranking quickly as he picked up slack, hauling backward with the muscles in his shoulders and back. His left wrist ached, and the fingers in his right hand began to

cramp from cranking. "What the hell have I got here?" he said.

"A blue," said Quint.

"He must weigh half a ton."

Quint laughed. "Maybe a hundred fifty pounds." Brody hauled and leaned, hauled and leaned, until finally he heard Quint say,

"You're getting there. Hold it." He stopped reeling. With a smooth, unhurried motion, Quint swung down the ladder from the flying bridge. He had a rifle in his hand, an old army M-1. He stood at the gunwale and looked down. "You want to see the fish?" he said. "Come look." Brody stood, and reeling to take up the slack as he walked, he moved to the side of the boat. In the dark water the shark was acrylic blue. It was about eight feet long, slender, with long pectoral fins. It swam slowly from side to side, no longer struggling.

"He's beautiful, isn't he?" said Hooper.

Quint flicked the rifle's safety to "off," and when the shark moved its head to file:///C|/My Documents/Mike's Shit/utilities/books/pdf format/Benchley, Peter - Jaws.txt (97 of 131) [1/18/2001 2:02:22 AM]

file:///C|/My Documents/Mike's Shit/utilities/books/pdf format/Benchley, Peter - Jaws.txt within a few inches of the surface, he squeezed off three quick shots. The bullets made clean round holes in the shark's head, drawing no blood. The shark shuddered and stopped moving.

"He's dead," said Brody.

"Shit," said Quint. "He's stunned, maybe, but that's all." Quint took a glove from

one of his hip pockets, slipped his right hand into it, and grabbed the wire line. From a sheath at his belt he took a knife. He lifted the shark's head clear of the water and bent

over the gunwale, The shark's mouth was open two or three inches wide. Its right eye, partly covered by a white membrane, gazed blankly at Quint. Quint jammed the knife into the shark's mouth and tried to pry it open farther, but the shark bit down, holding the

blade in its small triangular teeth. Quint pulled and twisted until the knife came free. He

put it back in its sheath and took a pair of wire cutters from his pocket.

"I guess you're paying me enough so I can afford to lose a hook and a little leader," he said. He touched the wire cutters to the leader and was about to snip it.

"Wait a minute," he said, putting the cutters back in his pocket and taking out his

knife. "Watch this. This always gives the folks a boot." Holding the leader in his left hand, he hoisted most of the shark out of the water. With a single swift motion he slit the

shark's belly from the anal fin to just below the jaw. The flesh pulled apart, and bloody entrails --white and red and blue --tumbled into the water like laundry falling from a basket. Then Quint cut the leader with the wire snips, and the shark slid overboard. As soon as its head was beneath the water, the shark began to thrash in the cloud of blood and innards, biting any morsel that passed into its maw. The body twitched as the shark swallowed, and pieces of intestines passed out the hole in the belly, to be eaten again.