Jaws Part 22

"Not this quick, and not for this kind of work."

"Who are you going to use tomorrow?"

"Some kid. But I won't take him out after a big white."

"I can understand that," said Brody, beginning to doubt the wisdom of approaching Quint for help. He added casually, "I'll be there, you know." He was shocked by the words as soon as he said them, appalled at what he had committed himself to do.

"You? Ha!"

Brody smarted under Quint's derision. "I can handle myself," he said.

"Maybe. I don't know you. But you can't handle a big fish if you don't know nothing about fishing. Can you swim?"

"Of course. What has that got to do with anything?"

"People fall overboard, and sometimes it takes a while to swing around and get to 'em."

"Don't worry about me."

"Whatever you say. But I still need a man who knows something about fishing. Or at least about boats."

Brody looked across his desk at Hooper. The last thing he wanted was to spend days on a boat with Hooper, especially in a situation in which Hooper would outrank him in knowledge, if not authority. He could send Hooper alone and stay ash.o.r.e himself. But that, he felt, would be capitulating, admitting finally and irrevocably his inability to face and conquer the strange enemy that was waging war on his town. Besides, maybe --over the course of a long day on a boat --Hooper might make a slip that would reveal what he had been doing last Wednesday, the day it rained. Brody was becoming obsessed with finding out where Hooper was that day, for whenever he allowed himself to consider the various alternatives, the one on which his mind always (93) settled was the one he most dreaded. He wanted to know that Hooper was at the movies, or playing backgammon at the Field Club, or smoking dope with some hippie, or laying some Girl Scout. He didn't care what it was, as long as he could know that Hooper had not been with Ellen. Or that he had been. In that case... ? The thought was still too wretched to cope with.

He cupped his hand over the mouthpiece and said to Hooper, "Do you want to come along? He needs a mate."

"He doesn't even have a mate? What a half-a.s.sed operation."

"Never mind that. Do you want to come or not?"

"Yes," said Hooper. "I'll probably live to regret it, but yes. I want to see that fish, and I guess this is my only chance." Brody said to Quint, "Okay, I've got your man."

"Does he know boats?"

"He knows boats."

"Monday morning, six o'clock. Bring whatever you want to eat. You know how to get here?"

"Route 27 to the turnoff for Promised Land, right?"

"Yeah. It's called Cranberry Hole Road. Straight into town. About a hundred yards past the last houses, take a left on a dirt road."

"Is there a sign?"

"No, but it's the only road around here. Leads right to my dock."

"Yours the only boat there?"

"Only one. It's called the Orca."

"All right. See you Monday."

"One more thing," said Quint. "Cash. Every day. In advance."

"Okay, but how come?"

"That's the way I do business. I don't want you falling overboard with my money."

"All right," said Brody. "You'll have it." He hung up and said to Hooper, "Monday, six A.M., okay?"

"Okay."

Meadows said, "Do I gather from your conversation that you're going, too, Martin?" Brody nodded. "It's my job."

"I'd say it's a bit beyond the call."

"Well, it's done now."

"What's the name of his boat?" asked Hooper.

"I think he said Orca," said Brody. "I don't know what it means."

"It doesn't mean anything. It is something. It's a killer whale." Meadows, Hooper, and Whitman rose to go. "Good luck," said Whitman. "I kind of envy you your trip. It should be exciting."

"I can do without excitement," said Brody. "I just want to get the d.a.m.n 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 (94) 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 d.a.m.ned 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 b.u.t.ter 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

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 pa.s.sing 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 sungla.s.ses?"

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 antic.i.p.ation of the early morning had long pa.s.sed, 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?"

(96)