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 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
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 teenagers 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 Queensborough 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
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 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
