Jaws

“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. “God damn 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 the steps, leaving Vaughan standing over the gnarled bundle of bone and fur.

TEN

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.”

“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,