Jaws

SIX

On her way home Friday noon, after a morning of volunteer work at the Southampton Hospital, Ellen stopped at the post office to buy a roll of stamps and get the mail. There was no home mail delivery in Amity. In theory, only special delivery mail was brought to the door — any door within a mile radius of the post office; in fact, even special delivery mail (except that clearly labeled as sent by the Federal Government) was kept at the post office until someone called for it.

The post office was a small, square building on Teal Street, just off Main. It had 500 mailboxes, 340 of which were rented to Amity’s permanent residents. The other 160 were allotted to summer people, according to the whims of the postmistress, Minnie Eldridge. Those people she liked were permitted to rent boxes for the summer. Those she didn’t like had to wait in line at the counter. Since she refused to rent a box to any summer person on a year-round basis, summer people never knew from one year to the next whether or not they would have a mailbox when they arrived in June.

It was generally assumed that Minnie Eldridge was in her early seventies, and that she had somehow convinced the authorities in Washington that she was well under compulsory retirement age. She was small and frail-looking, but deceptively strong, able to hustle packages and cartons nearly as quickly as the two young men who worked in the post office with her. She never spoke about her past or her private life. The only common knowledge about her was that she had been born on Nantucket Island and had left sometime soon after World War I. She had been in Amity for as long as anyone living could remember, and she considered herself not only a native, but also the resident expert on the history of the town. She needed no prodding at all to embark on a discourse about Amity’s eponym, a seventeenth-century woman named Amity Hopewell who had been convicted of witchcraft, and she took pleasure in reciting the list of major events in the town’s past: the landing of some British troops during the Revolution in an ill-fated attempt to outflank a Colonial force (the Britons lost their way and wandered aimlessly back and forth across Long Island); the fire in 1823 that destroyed every building except the town’s only church; the wreck of a rumrunning ship in 1921 (the ship was eventually refloated, but by then all the cargo off-loaded to make the ship lighter had vanished); the hurricane of 1938, and the widely reported (though never fully ascertained) landing of three German spies on the Scotch Road beach in 1942.

Ellen and Minnie made each other nervous. Ellen sensed that Minnie didn’t like her, and she was right. Minnie felt uneasy with Ellen because she couldn’t catalogue her. Ellen was neither summer folk nor winter folk. She hadn’t earned her year-round mailbox, she had married it.

Minnie was alone in the post office, sorting mail, when Ellen arrived.

“Morning, Minnie,” Ellen said.

Minnie looked up at the clock over the counter and said, “Afternoon.”

“Could I have a roll of eights, please?” Ellen put a five-dollar bill and three ones on the counter.

Minnie pushed a few more letters into boxes, set down her bundle, and walked to the counter. She gave Ellen a roll of stamps and dropped the bills into a drawer. “What’s Martin think he’s going to do about that shark?” she said.

“I don’t know. I guess they’ll try to catch it.”

“Canst thou draw out leviathan with a hook?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Book of Job,” said Minnie. “No mortal man’s going to catch that fish.”

“Why do you say that?”

“We’re not meant to catch it, that’s why. We’re being readied.”

“For what?”

“We’ll know when the time comes.”

“I see.” Ellen put the stamps in her purse. “Well, maybe you’re right. Thanks, Minnie.” She turned and walked toward the door.

“There’ll be no mistaking it,” Minnie said to Ellen’s back.

Ellen walked to Main Street and turned right, past a boutique and an antique shop. She stopped at Amity Hardware and went inside. There was no immediate response to the tinkle of the bell that the door struck as she opened it. She waited for a few seconds, then called, “Albert?”

She walked to the back of the store, to an open door that led to the basement. She heard two men talking below.

“I’ll be right up,” called the voice of Albert Morris. “Here’s a whole box of them,” Morris said to the other man. “Look through and see if you find what you want.”

Morris came to the bottom of the stairs and started up — slowly and deliberately, one step at a time, holding on to the banister. He was in his early sixties, and he had had a heart attack two years earlier.

“Cleats,” he said when he reached the top of the stairs.

“What?” said Ellen.

“Cleats. Fella wants cleats for a boat. Size he’s looking for, he must be the captain of a battleship. Anyway, what can I do for you?”

“The rubber nozzle in my kitchen sink is all cracked. You know, the kind with the switch for spraying. I want to get a new one.”

“No problem. They’re up this way.” Morris led Ellen to a cabinet in the middle of the store. “This what you had in mind?” He held up a rubber nozzle.

“Perfect.”

“Eighty cents. Charge or cash?”

“I’ll pay you for it. I don’t want you to have to write up a slip just for eighty cents.”

“Written ’em a lot smaller ’n that,” said Morris. “I could tell you stories that’d set your ears to ringing.”

They walked across the narrow store to the cash register, and as he rang up the sale on the register, Morris said, “Lots of people upset about this shark thing.”

“I know. You can’t blame them.”

“They think the beaches oughta be opened up again.”

“Well, I…”

“You ask me, I think they’re full of — pardon the expression — bull. I think Martin’s doing right.”

“I’m glad to know that, Albert.”

“Maybe this new fella can help us out.”

“Who’s that?”

“This fish expert from up Massachusetts.”

“Oh yes. I heard he was in town.”

“He’s right here.”

Ellen looked around and saw no one. “What do you mean?”

“Down cellar. He’s the one wants the cleats.”

Just then, Ellen heard footsteps on the stairs. She turned and saw Hooper coming through the door, and she suddenly felt a surge of girlish nervousness, as if she were seeing a beau she hadn’t seen in years. The man was a stranger, yet there was something familiar about him.

“I found them,” said Hooper, holding up two large stainless-steel cleats. He walked over to the counter, smiled politely at Ellen, and said to Morris, “These’ll do fine.” He put the cleats on the counter and handed Morris a twenty-dollar bill.

Ellen looked at Hooper, trying to define her reminiscence. She hoped Albert Morris would introduce them, but he seemed to have no intention of doing so. “Excuse me,” she said to Hooper, “but I have to ask you something.”

Hooper looked at her and smiled again — a pleasant, friendly smile that softened the sharpness of his features and made his light blue eyes shine. “Sure,” he said. “Ask away.”

“You aren’t by any chance related to David Hooper, are you?”

“He’s my older brother. Do you know David?”

“Yes,” said Ellen. “Or rather, I used to. I went out with him a long time ago. I’m Ellen Brody. I used to be Ellen Shepherd. Back then, I mean.”

“Oh sure. I remember you.”

“You don’t.”

“I do. No kidding. I’ll prove it to you. Let me see… You wore your hair shorter then, sort of a pageboy. You always wore a charm bracelet. I remember that because it had a big charm that looked like the Eiffel Tower. And you always used to sing that song — what was it called? — ‘ShiBoom,’ or something like that. Right?”

Ellen laughed. “My heavens, you have quite a memory. I’d forgotten that song.”

“It’s screwy the things that impress kids. You went out with David for what — two years?”

“Two summers,” Ellen said. “They were fun. I hadn’t thought about them much in the past few years.”

“Do you remember me?”

“Vaguely. I’m not sure. I remember David had a younger brother. You must have been about nine or ten then.”

“About that; David’s ten years older than I am. Another thing I remember: Everybody called me Matt. I thought it sounded grown-up. But you called me Matthew. You said it sounded more dignified. I was probably in love with you.”

“Oh?” Ellen reddened, and Albert Morris laughed.

“At one time or another,” said Hooper, “I fell in love with all the girls David went out with.”

“Oh.”

Morris handed Hooper his change, and Hooper said to Ellen, “I’m going down to the dock. Can I drop you anywhere?”

“Thank you. I have a car.” She thanked Morris, and, with Hooper behind her, walked out of the store. “So now you’re a scientist,” she said when they were outside.

“Kind of by accident. I started out as an English major. But then I took a course in marine biology to satisfy my science requirement, and — bingo! — I was hooked.”

“On what? The ocean?”

“No. I mean, yes and no. I was always crazy about the ocean. When I was twelve or thirteen, my idea of a big time was to take a sleeping bag down to the beach and spend the night lying in the sand listening to the waves, wondering where they had come from and what fantastic things they had passed on the way. What I got hooked on in college was fish, or, to be really specific, sharks.”

Ellen laughed. “What an awful thing to fall in love with. It’s like having a passion for rats.”

“That’s what most people think,” said Hooper, “But they’re wrong. Sharks have everything a scientist dreams of. They’re beautiful — God, how beautiful they are! They’re like an impossibly perfect piece of machinery. They’re as graceful as any bird. They’re as mysterious as any animal on earth. No one knows for sure how long they live or what impulses — except for hunger — they respond to. There are more than two hundred and fifty species of shark, and every one is different from every other one. Scientists spend their lives trying to find answers about sharks, and as soon as they come up with a nice, pat generalization, something shoots it down. People have been trying to find an effective shark repellent for over two thousand years. They’ve never found one that really works.” He stopped, looked at Ellen, and smiled. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to lecture. As you can see, I’m an addict.”

“And as you can see,” said Ellen, “I don’t know what I’m talking about. I imagine you went to Yale.”

“Of course. Where else? For four generations, the only male in our family who didn’t go to Yale was an uncle of mine who got thrown out of Andover and ended up at Miami or Ohio. After Yale, I went to graduate school at the University of Florida. And after that, I spent a couple of years chasing sharks around the world.”

“That must have been interesting.”

“For me it was paradise. It was like giving an alcoholic the keys to a distillery. I tagged sharks in the Red Sea and dove with them off Australia. The more I learned about them, the more I knew I didn’t know.”

“You dived with them?”

Hooper nodded. “In a cage mostly, but sometimes not. I know what you must think. A lot of people think I’ve got a death wish — my mother in particular. But if you know what you’re doing, you can reduce the danger to almost nil.”

“You must be the world’s greatest living shark expert.”

“Hardly,” Hooper said with a laugh. “But I’m trying. The one trip I missed out on, the one I would have given anything to go on, was Peter Gimbel’s trip. It was made into a movie. I dream about that trip. They were in the water with two great whites, the same kind of shark that’s here now.”

“I’m just as glad you didn’t go on that trip,” said Ellen. “You probably would have tried to see what the view was like from inside one of the sharks. But tell me about David. How is he?”

“He’s okay, all things considered. He’s a broker in San Francisco.”

“What do you mean, ‘all things considered’?”

“Well, he’s on his second wife. His first wife was — maybe you know this — Patty Fremont.”

“Sure. I used to play tennis with her. She sort of inherited David from me. That’s a nice way of putting it.”

“That lasted three years, until she latched onto someone with a family business and a house in Antibes. So David went and found himself a girl whose father is the majority stockholder in an oil company. She’s nice enough, but she’s got the IQ of an artichoke. If David had any sense, he would have known when he had it good and he would have held on to you.”

Ellen blushed and said softly, “You’re nice to say it.”

“I’m serious. That’s what I’d have done if I’d been him.”

“What did you do? What lucky girl finally got you?”

“None, so far. I guess there are girls around who just don’t know how lucky they could be.” Hooper laughed. “Tell me about yourself. No, don’t. Let me guess. Three children. Right?”

“Right. I didn’t realize it showed that much.”

“No, no. I don’t mean that. It doesn’t show at all. Not at all. Your husband is — let’s see — a lawyer. You have an apartment in town and a house on the beach in Amity. You couldn’t be happier. And that’s exactly what I’d wish for you.”

Ellen shook her head, smiling. “Not quite. I don’t mean the happiness part, the rest. My husband is the police chief in Amity.”

Hooper let the surprise show in his eyes for only an instant. Then he smacked himself on the forehead and said, “What a dummy I am! Of course. Brody. I never made the connection. That’s great. I met your husband last night. He seems like quite a guy.”

Ellen thought she detected a flicker of irony in Hooper’s voice, but then she told herself, Don’t be stupid — you’re making things up. “How long will you be here?” she said.

“I don’t know. That depends on what happens with this fish. As soon as he leaves, I’ll leave.”

“Do you live in Woods Hole?”

“No, but not far away. In Hyannisport. I have a little house on the water. I have a thing about being near the water. If I get more than ten miles inland, I begin to feel claustrophobic.”

“You live all alone?”

“All alone. It’s just me and about a hundred million dollars’ worth of stereo equipment and a million books. Hey, do you still dance?”

“Dance?”

“Yeah. I just remembered. One of the things David used to say was that you were the best dancer he ever went out with. You won a contest, didn’t you?”

The past — like a bird long locked in a cage and suddenly released — was flying at her, swirling around her head, showering her with longing. “A samba contest,” she said. “At the Beach Club. I’d forgotten. No, I don’t dance any more. Martin doesn’t dance, and even if he did, I don’t think anyone plays that kind of music any more.”

“That’s too bad. David said you were terrific.”

“That was a wonderful night,” Ellen said, letting her mind float back, picking out the tiny memories. “It was a Lester Lanin band. The Beach Club was covered with crepe paper and balloons. David wore his favorite jacket — red silk.”

“I have it now,” said Hooper. “I inherited that from him.”

“They played all those wonderful songs. ‘Mountain Greenery’ was one. He could two-step so well. I could barely keep up with him. The only thing he wouldn’t do was waltz. He said waltzes made him dizzy. Everybody was so tan. I don’t think there was any rain all summer long. I remember I chose a yellow dress for that night because it went with my tan. There were two contests, a charleston that Susie Kendall and Chip Fogarty won. And the samba contest. They played ‘Brazil’ in the finals, and we danced as if our lives depended on it. Bending sideways and backward like crazy people. I thought I was going to collapse when it was over. You know what we won for first prize? A canned chicken. I kept it in my room until it got so old it began to swell and Daddy made me throw it away.”

Ellen smiled. “Those were fun times. I try not to think about them too much.”

“Why?”

“The past always seems better when you look back on it than it did at the time. And the present never looks as good as it will in the future. It’s depressing if you spend too much time reliving old joys. You think you’ll never have anything as good again.”

“It’s easy for me to keep my mind off the past.”

“Really? Why?”

“It just wasn’t too great, that’s all. David was the firstborn. I was pretty much of an afterthought. I think my purpose in life was to keep the parents’ marriage together. And I failed. That’s pretty crummy when you fail at the first thing you’re supposed to accomplish. David was twenty when the parents got divorced. I wasn’t even eleven. And the divorce wasn’t exactly amiable. The few years before it weren’t too amiable, either. It’s the old story — nothing special — but it wasn’t a lot of fun. I probably make too much of it. Anyway, I look forward to a lot of things. I don’t look back a lot.”

“I suppose that’s healthier.”

“I don’t know. Maybe if I had a terrific past, I’d spend all my time living in it. But… enough of that. I should get down to the dock. You’re sure I can’t drop you anywhere.”

“Positive, thank you. My car’s just across the street.”

“Okay. Well…” Hooper held out his hand. “It’s been really great to see you again, and I hope I’ll see you before I go.”

“I’d like that,” said Ellen, shaking his hand.

“I don’t suppose I could get you out on a tennis court late some afternoon.”

Ellen laughed. “Oh my. I haven’t held a tennis racket in my hand since I can’t remember when. But thanks for asking.”

“Okay. Well, see you.” Hooper turned and trotted the few yards down the block to his car, a green Ford Pinto.

Ellen stood and watched as Hooper started the car, maneuvered out of the parking space, and pulled out into the street. As he drove past her, she raised her hand to her shoulder and waved, tentatively, shyly. Hooper stuck his left hand out of the car window and waved. Then he turned the corner and was gone.

A terrible, painful sadness clutched at Ellen. More than ever before, she felt that her life — the best part of it, at least, the part that was fresh and fun — was behind her. Recognizing the sensation made her feel guilty, for she read it as proof that she was an unsatisfactory mother, an unsatisfied wife. She hated her life, and hated herself for hating it. She thought of a line from a song Billy played on the stereo: “I’d trade all my tomorrows for a single yesterday.” Would she make a deal like that? She wondered. But what good was there in wondering? Yesterdays were gone, spinning ever farther away down a shaft that had no bottom. None of the richness, none of the delight, could ever be retrieved.

A vision of Hooper’s smiling face flashed across her mind. Forget it, she told herself. That’s stupid. Worse. It’s self-defeating.

She walked across the street and climbed into her car. As she pulled out into the traffic, she saw Larry Vaughan standing on the corner. God, she thought, he looks as sad as I feel.

SEVEN

The weekend was as quiet as the weekends in the late fall. With the beaches closed, and with the police patrolling them during the daylight hours, Amity was practically deserted. Hooper cruised up and down the shore in Ben Gardner’s boat, but the only signs of life he saw in the water were a few schools of baitfish and one small school of bluefish. By Sunday night, after spending the day off East Hampton the beaches there were crowded, and he thought there might be a chance the shark would appear where people were swimming — he told Brody he was ready to conclude that the fish had gone back to the deep.

“What makes you think so?” Brody had asked.

“There’s not a sign of him,” said Hooper. “And there are other fish around. If there was a big white in the neighborhood, everything else would vanish. That’s one of the things divers say about whites. When they’re around, there’s an awful stillness in the water.”

“I’m not convinced,” said Brody. “At least not enough to open the beaches. Not yet.” He knew that after an uneventful weekend there would be pressure — from Vaughan, from other realestate agents, from merchants — to open the beaches. He almost wished Hooper had seen the fish. That would have been a certainty. Now there was nothing but negative evidence, and to his policeman’s mind that was not enough.

On Monday afternoon, Brody was sitting in his office when Bixby announced a phone call from Ellen.

“I’m sorry to bother you,” she said, “but I wanted to check something with you. What would you think about giving a dinner party?”

“What for?”

“Just to have a dinner party. We haven’t had one in years. I can’t even remember when our last one was.”

“No,” said Brody. “Neither can I.” But it was a lie, He remembered all too well their last dinner party: three years ago, when Ellen was in the midst of her crusade to reestablish her ties with the summer community. She had asked three summer couples. They were nice enough people, Brody recalled, but the conversations had been stiff, forced, and uncomfortable. Brody and his guests had searched each other for any common interest or experience, and they had failed. So after a while, the guests had fallen back on talking among themselves, self-consciously polite about including Ellen whenever she said something like, “Oh, I remember him!” She had been nervous and flighty, and after the guests had left, after she had done the dishes and said twice to Brody, “Wasn’t that a nice evening!” she had shut herself in the bathroom and wept.

“Well, what do you think?” said Ellen.

“I don’t know. I guess it’s all right, if you want to do it. Who are you going to invite?”

“First of all, I think we should have Matt Hooper.”

“What for? He eats over at the Abelard, doesn’t he? It’s all included in the price of the room.”

“That’s not the point, Martin. You know that. He’s alone in town, and besides, he’s very nice.”

“How do you know? I didn’t think you knew him.”

“Didn’t I tell you? I ran into him in Albert Morris’s on Friday. I’m sure I mentioned it to you.”

“No, but never mind. It doesn’t make any difference.”

“It turns out he’s the brother of the Hooper I used to know. He remembered a lot more about me than I did about him. But he is a lot younger.”

“Uh-huh. When are you planning this shindig for?”

“I was thinking about tomorrow night. And it’s not going to be a shindig. I simply thought we could have a nice, small party with a few couples. Maybe six or eight people altogether.”

“Do you think you can get people to come on that short notice?”

“Oh yes. Nobody does anything during the week. There are a few bridge parties, but that’s about all.”

“Oh,” said Brody. “You mean summer people.”

“That’s what I had in mind. Matt would certainly feel at ease with them. What about the Baxters? Would they be fun?”

“I don’t think I know them.”

“Yes, you do, silly. Clem and Cici Baxter. She was Cici Davenport. They live out on Scotch. He’s taking some vacation now. I know because I saw him on the street this morning.”

“Okay. Try them if you want.”

“Who else?”

“Somebody I can talk to. How about the Meadows?”

“But he already knows Harry.”

“He doesn’t know Dorothy. She’s chatty enough.”

“All right,” said Ellen. “I guess a little local color won’t hurt. And Harry does know everything that goes on around here.”

“I wasn’t thinking about local color,” Brody said sharply. “They’re our friends.”

“I know. I didn’t mean anything.”

“If you want local color, all you have to do is look in the other side of your bed.”

“I know. I said I was sorry.”

“What about a girl?” said Brody. “I think you should try to find some nice young thing for Hooper.”

There was a pause before Ellen said, “If you think so.”

“I don’t really care. I just thought be might enjoy himself more if he had someone his own age to talk to.”

“He’s not that young, Martin. And we’re not that old. But all right: I’ll see if I can think of somebody who’d be fun for him.”

“I’ll see you later,” Brody said, and he hung up the phone. He was depressed, for he saw something ominous in this dinner party. He couldn’t be sure, but he believed — and the more he thought about it, the stronger the belief became — that Ellen was launching another campaign to reenter the world he had taken her from, and this time she had a lever with which to jimmy her way in: Hooper.

The next evening, Brody arrived home a little after five. Ellen was setting the dinner table in the dining room. Brody kissed her on the cheek and said, “Boy, it’s been a long time since I’ve seen that silver.” It was Ellen’s wedding silver, a gift from her parents.

“I know. It took me hours to polish it.”

“And will you look at this?” Brody picked up a tulip wine glass. “Where did you get these?”

“I bought them at the Lure.”

“How much?” Brody set the glass down on the table.

“Not much,” she said, folding a napkin and placing it neatly beneath a dinner fork and salad fork.

“How much?”

“Twenty dollars. But that was for a whole dozen.”

“You don’t kid around when you throw a party.”

“We didn’t have any decent wine glasses,” she said defensively. “The last of our old ones broke months ago, when Sean tipped over the sideboard.”

Brody counted the places set around the table. “Only six?” he said. “What happened?”

“The Baxters couldn’t make it. Cici called. Clem had to go into town on some business, and she thought she’d go with him. They’re spending the night.” There was a fragile lilt to her voice, a false insouciance.

“Oh,” said Brody. “Too bad.” He dared not show that he was pleased. “Who’d you get for Hooper, some nice young chick?”

“Daisy Wicker. She works for Gibby at the Bibelot. She’s a nice girl.”

“What time are people coming?”

“The Meadows and Daisy at seven-thirty. I asked Matthew for seven.”

“I thought his name was Matt.”

“Oh, that’s just an old joke he reminded me of. Apparently, I used to call him Matthew when he was young. The reason I wanted him to come early was so the kids would have a chance to get to know him. I think they’ll be fascinated.”

Brody looked at his watch. “If people aren’t coming till seven-thirty, that means we won’t be eating till eight-thirty or nine. I’ll probably starve to death before then. I think I’ll grab a sandwich.” He started for the kitchen.

“Don’t stuff yourself,” said Ellen. “I’ve got a delicious dinner coming.”

Brody sniffed the kitchen aromas, eyed the clutter of pots and packages, and said, “What are you cooking?”

“It’s called butterfly lamb,” she said. “I hope I don’t do something stupid and botch it.”

“Smells good,” said Brody. “What’s this stuff by the sink? Should I throw it out and wash the pot?”

From the living room Ellen said, “What stuff?”

“This stuff in the pot.”

“What — omigod!” she said, and she hurried into the kitchen. “Don’t you dare throw it out.” She saw the smile on Brody’s face. “Oh, you rat.” She slapped him on the rear. “That’s gazpacho. Soup.”

“Are you sure it’s still okay?” he teased. “It looks all slimy.”

“That’s what it’s supposed to look like, you clot.”

Brody shook his head. “Old Hooper’s going to wish he ate at the Abelard.”

“You’re a beast,” she said. “Wait till you taste it. You’ll change your tune.”

“Maybe. If I live long enough.” He laughed and went to the refrigerator. He rummaged around and found some bologna and cheese for a sandwich. He opened a beer and started for the living room. “I think I’ll watch the news for a while and then go shower and change,” he said.

“I put clean clothes out for you on the bed. You might shave, too. You have a hideous five o’clock shadow.”

“Good God, who’s coming to dinner — Prince Philip and Jackie Onassis?”

“I just want you to look nice, that’s all.”

At 7.05, the door bell rang, and Brody answered it. He was wearing a blue madras shirt, blue uniform slacks, and black cordovans. He felt crisp and clean. Spiffy, Ellen had said. But when he opened the door for Hooper, he felt, if not rumpled, at least outclassed. Hooper wore bell-bottom blue jeans, Weejun loafers with no socks, and a red Lacoste shirt with an alligator on the breast. It was the uniform of the young and rich in Amity.

“Hi,” said Brody. “Come in.”

“Hi,” said Hooper. He extended his hand, and Brody shook it.

Ellen came out of the kitchen. She was wearing a long batik skirt, slippers, and a blue silk blouse. She wore the string of cultured pearls Brody had given her as a wedding present. “Matthew,” she said. “I’m glad you could come.”

“I’m glad you asked me,” Hooper said, shaking Ellen’s hand. “I’m sorry I don’t look more respectable, but I didn’t bring anything down with me but working clothes. All I can say for them is that they’re clean.”

“Don’t be silly,” said Ellen. “You look wonderful. The red goes beautifully with your tan and your hair.”

Hooper laughed. He turned and said to Brody, “Do you mind if I give Ellen something?”

“What do you mean?” Brody said. He thought to himself, give her what? A kiss? A box of chocolates? A punch in the nose?

“A present. It’s nothing, really. Just something I picked up.”

“No, I don’t mind,” said Brody, still perplexed that the question should have been asked.

Hooper dug into the pocket of his jeans and pulled out a small package wrapped in tissue. He handed it to Ellen. “For the hostess,” he said, “to make up for my grubby clothes.”

Ellen tittered and carefully unwrapped the paper. Inside was what seemed to be a charm, or perhaps a necklace pendant, an inch or so across. “It’s lovely,” she said. “What is it?”

“It’s a shark tooth,” said Hooper. “A tiger-shark tooth, to be more specific. The casing’s silver.”

“Where did you get it?”

“In Macao. I passed through there a couple of years ago on a project. There was a little backstreet store, where an even littler Chinese man spent his whole life polishing shark teeth and molding the silver caps to hold the rings. I couldn’t resist them.”

“Macao,” said Ellen. “I don’t think I could place Macao on a map if I had to. It must have been fascinating.”

Brody said, “It’s near Hong Kong.”

“Right,” said Hooper. “In any event, there’s supposed to be a superstition about these things, that if you keep it with you you’ll be safe from shark bite. Under the present circumstances, I thought it would be appropriate.”

“Completely,” said Ellen. “Do you have one?”

“I have one,” said Hooper, “but I don’t know how to carry it. I don’t like to wear things around my neck, and if you carry a shark tooth in your pants pocket, I’ve found you run two real risks. One is that you’ll get stabbed in the leg, and the other is that you’ll end up with a gash in your pants. It’s like carrying an open-blade knife around in your pocket. So in my case, practicality takes precedence over superstition, at least while I’m on dry land.”

Ellen laughed and said to Brody, “Martin, could I ask a huge favor? Would you run upstairs and get that thin silver chain out of my jewelry box? I’ll put Matthew’s shark tooth on right now.” She turned to Hooper and said, “You never know when you might meet a shark at dinner.”

Brody started up the stairs, and Ellen said, “Oh, and Martin, tell the boys to come down.”

As he rounded the corner at the top of the stairs, Brody heard Ellen say, “It is such fun to see you again.”

Brody walked into the bedroom and sat down on the edge of the bed. He took a deep breath and clenched and unclenched his right fist. He was fighting anger and confusion, and he was losing. He felt threatened, as if an intruder had come into his home, possessing subtle, intangible weapons he could not cope with: looks and youth and sophistication and, above all, a communion with Ellen born in a time which, Brody knew, Ellen wished had never ended. Where previously he had felt Ellen was trying to use Hooper to impress other summer people, now he felt she was trying to impress Hooper herself. He didn’t know why. Maybe he was wrong. After all, Ellen and Hooper had known each other long ago. Perhaps he was making too much of two friends simply trying to get to know one another again. Friends? Christ, Hooper had to be ten years younger than Ellen, or almost. What kind of friends could they have been? Acquaintances. Barely. So why was she putting on her supersophisticated act? It demeaned her, Brody thought; and it demeaned Brody that she should try, by posturing, to deny her life with him.

“Fuck it,” he said aloud. He stood up, opened a dresser drawer, and rooted through it until he found Ellen’s jewelry box. He took out the silver chain, closed the drawer, and walked into the hall. He poked his head into the boys’ rooms and said, “Let’s go, troops,” and then he walked downstairs.

Ellen and Hooper were sitting at opposite ends of the couch, and as Brody walked into the living room, he heard Ellen say, “Would you rather that I not call you Matthew?”

Hooper laughed and said, “I don’t mind. It does sort of bring back memories, and despite what I said the other day, there’s nothing wrong with that.”

The other day? Brody thought. In the hardware store? That must have been some conversation. “Here,” he said to Ellen, handing her the chain.

“Thank you,” she said. She unclasped the pearls and tossed them onto the coffee table. “Now, Matthew, show me how this should go.” Brody picked the string of pearls off the table and put them in his pocket.

The boys came downstairs single file, all dressed neatly in sport shirts and slacks. Ellen snapped the silver chain around her neck, smiled at Hooper, and said, “Come here, boys. Come meet Mr. Hooper. This is Billy Brody. Billy’s fourteen.” Billy shook hands with Hooper. “And this is Martin Junior. He’s twelve. And this is Sean. He’s nine… almost nine. Mr. Hooper is an oceanographer.”

“An ichthyologist, actually,” said Hooper.

“What’s that?” said Martin Junior.

“A zoologist who specializes in fish life.”

“What’s a zoologist?” asked Sean.

“I know that,” said Billy. “That’s a guy who studies animals.”

“Right,” said Hooper. “Good for you.”

“Are you going to catch the shark?” asked Martin.

“I’m going to try to find him,” said Hooper. “But I don’t know. He may have gone away already.”

“Have you ever caught a shark?”

“Yes, but not one as big as this.”

Sean said, “Do sharks lay eggs?”

“That, young man,” said Hooper, “is a good question, and a very complicated one. Not like a chicken, if that’s what you mean. But yes, some sharks do have eggs.”

Ellen said, “Give Mr. Hooper a chance, boys.” She turned to Brody. “Martin, could you make us a drink?”

“Sure,” said Brody. “What’ll it be?”

“A gin and tonic would be fine for me,” said Hooper.

“What about you, Ellen?”

“Let’s see. What would be good. I think I’ll just have some vermouth on the rocks.”

“Hey, Mom,” said Billy, “what’s that around your neck?”

“A shark tooth, dear. Mr. Hooper gave it to me.”

“Hey, that’s really cool. Can I look?”

Brody went into the kitchen. The liquor was kept in a cabinet over the sink. The door was stuck. He tugged at the metal handle, and it came off in his hand. Without thinking, he pegged it into the garbage pail. From a drawer he took a screwdriver and pried open the cabinet door. Vermouth. What the hell was the color of the bottle? Nobody ever drank vermouth on the rocks. Ellen’s drink when she drank, and that was rarely, was rye and ginger. Green. There it was, way in the back. Brody grabbed the bottle, twisted off the cap, and sniffed. It smelled like one of those cheap, fruity wines the winos bought for sixty-nine a pint.

Brody made the two drinks, then fashioned a rye and ginger for himself. By habit, he began to measure the rye with a shot glass, but then he changed his mind and poured until the glass was a third full. He topped it off with ginger ale, dropped in a few ice cubes, and reached for the two other glasses. The only convenient way to carry them in one hand was to grip one with the thumb and last three fingers of his hand and then support the other against the first by sticking his index finger down the inside of the glass. He took a slug of his own drink and went back into the living room.

Billy and Martin had crowded onto the couch with Ellen and Hooper. Sean was sitting on the floor. Brody heard Hooper say something about a pig, and Martin said, “Wow!”

“Here,” said Brody, handing the forward glass — the one with his finger in it — to Ellen.

“No tip for you, my man,” she said. “It’s a good thing you decided against a career as a waiter.”

Brody looked at her, considered a series of rude remarks, and settled for, “Forgive me, Duchess.” He handed the other glass to Hooper and said, “I guess this is what you had in mind.”

“That’s great. Thanks.”

“Matt was just telling us about a shark he caught,” said Ellen. “It had almost a whole pig in it.”

“No kidding,” said Brody, sitting in a chair opposite the couch.

“And that’s not all, Dad,” said Martin. “There was a roll of tar paper, too.”

“And a human bone,” said Sean.

“I said it looked like a human bone,” said Hooper. “There was no way to be sure at the time. It might have been a beef rib.”

Brody said, “I thought you scientists could tell those things right on the spot.”

“Not always,” said Hooper. “Especially when it’s only a piece of a bone like a rib.”

Brody took a long swallow of his drink and said, “Oh.”

“Hey, Dad,” said Billy. “You know how a porpoise kills a shark?”

“With a gun?”

“No, man. It butts him to death. That’s what Mr. Hooper says.”

“Terrific,” said Brody, and he drained his glass. “I’m going to have another drink. Anybody else ready?”

“On a week night?” said Ellen. “My.”

“Why not? It’s not every night we throw a no-kidding, go-to-hell dinner party.” Brody started for the kitchen but was stopped by the ringing of the doorbell. He opened the door and saw Dorothy Meadows, short and slight, dressed, as usual, in a dark blue dress and a single strand of pearls. Behind her was a girl Brody assumed was Daisy Wicker — a tall, slim girl with long, straight hair. She wore slacks and sandals and no makeup. Behind her was the unmistakable bulk of Harry Meadows.

“Hello, there,” said Brody. “Come on in.”

“Good evening, Martin,” said Dorothy Meadows. “We met Miss Wicker as we came into the driveway.”

“I walked,” said Daisy Wicker. “It was nice.”

“Good, good. Come on in. I’m Martin Brody.”

“I know. I’ve seen you driving your car. You must have an interesting job.”

Brody laughed. “I’d tell you all about it, except it would probably put you to sleep.”

Brody led them into the living room and turned them over to Ellen for introduction to Hooper. He took drink orders — Bourbon on the rocks for Harry, club soda with a twist of lemon for Dorothy, and a gin and tonic for Daisy Wicker. But before he fixed their drinks, he made a fresh one for himself, and he sipped it as he prepared the others. By the time he was ready to return to the living room, he had finished about half his drink, so he poured in a generous splash of rye and a dash more ginger ale.

He took Dorothy’s and Daisy’s drinks first, and returned to the kitchen for Meadows’ and his own. He was taking one last swallow before rejoining the company, when Ellen came into the kitchen.

“Don’t you think you better slow down?” she said.

“I’m fine,” he said. “Don’t worry about me.”

“You’re not being exactly gracious.”

“I’m not? I thought I was being charming.”

“Hardly.”

He smiled at her and said, “Tough shit,” and as he spoke, he realized she was right: he had better slow down. He walked into the living room.

The children had gone upstairs. Dorothy Meadows sat on the couch next to Hooper and was chatting with him about his work at Woods Hole. Meadows, in the chair opposite the couch, listened quietly. Daisy Wicker was standing alone, on the other side of the room, by the fireplace, gazing about with a subdued smile on her face. Brody handed Meadows his drink and strolled over next to Daisy.

“You’re smiling,” he said.

“Am I? I didn’t notice.”

“Thinking of something funny?”

“No. I guess I was just interested. I’ve never been in a policeman’s house before.”

“What did you expect? Bars on the windows? A guard at the door?”

“No, nothing. I was just curious.”

“And what have you decided? It looks just like a normal person’s house, doesn’t it?”

“I guess so. Sort of.”

“What does that mean?”

“Nothing.”

“Oh.”

She took a sip of her drink and said, “Do you like being a policeman?”

Brody couldn’t tell whether or not there was hostility in the question. “Yes,” he said. “It’s a good job, and it has a purpose to it.”

“What’s the purpose?”

“What do you think?” he said, slightly irritated. “To uphold the law.”

“Don’t you feel alienated?”

“Why the hell should I feel alienated? Alienated from what?”

“From the people. I mean, the only thing that justifies your existence is telling people what not to do. Doesn’t that make you feel freaky?”

For a moment, Brody thought he was being put on, but the girl never smiled or smirked or shifted her eyes from his. “No, I don’t feel freaky,” he said. “I don’t see why I should feel any more freaky than you do, working at the whatchamacallit.”

“The Bibelot.”

“Yeah. What do you sell there anyway?”

“We sell people their past. It gives them comfort.”

“What do you mean, their past?”

“Antiques. They’re bought by people who hate their present and need the security of their past. Or if not theirs, someone else’s. Once they buy it, it becomes theirs. I bet that’s important to you, too.”

“What, the past?”

“No, security. Isn’t that supposed to be one of the heavy things about being a cop?”

Brody glanced across the room and noticed that Meadows’ glass was empty. “Excuse me,” he said. “I have to tend to the other guests.”

“Sure. Nice talking to you.”

Brody took Meadows’ glass and his own into the kitchen. Ellen was filling a bowl with Tortilla chips.

“Where the hell did you find that girl?” he said. “Under a rock?”

“Who? Daisy? I told you, she works at the Bibelot.”

“Have you ever talked to her?”

“A little. She seems very nice and bright.”

“She’s a spook. She’s just like some of the kids we bust who start smart-mouthing us in the station.” He made a drink for Meadows, then poured another for himself. He looked up and saw Ellen staring at him.

“What’s the matter with you?” she said.

“I guess I don’t like strange people coming into my house and insulting me.”

“Honestly, Martin. I’m sure there was no insult intended. She was probably just being frank. Frankness is in these days, you know.”

“Well, if she gets any franker with me, she’s gonna be out, I’ll tell you that.” He picked up the two drinks and started for the door.

Ellen said, “Martin…” and he stopped. “For my sake… please.”

“Don’t worry about a thing. Everything’ll be fine. Like they say in the commercials, calm down.”

He refilled Hooper’s drink and Daisy Wicker’s without refilling his own. Then he sat down and nursed his drink through a long story Meadows was telling Daisy. Brody felt all right — pretty good, in fact — and he knew that if he didn’t have anything more to drink before dinner, he’d be fine.

At 8.30, Ellen brought the soup plates out from the kitchen and set them around the table. “Martin,” she said, “would you open the wine for me while I get everyone seated?”

“Wine?”

“There are three bottles in the kitchen. A white in the icebox and two reds on the counter. You may as well open them all. The reds will need time to breathe.”

“Of course they will,” Brody said as he stood up. “Who doesn’t?”

“Oh, and the tire-bouchin is on the counter next to the red.”

“The what?”

Daisy Wicker said, “It’s tire-bouchon. The cork-screw.”

Brody took vengeful pleasure in seeing Ellen blush, for it relieved him of some of his own embarrassment. He found the corkscrew and went to work on the two bottles of red wine. He pulled one cork cleanly, but the other crumbled as he was withdrawing it, and pieces slipped into the bottle. He took the bottle of white out of the refrigerator, and as he uncorked it he tangled his tongue trying to pronounce the name of the wine: Montrachet. He arrived at what seemed to him an acceptable pronunciation, wiped the bottle dry with a dishtowel, and took it into the dining room.

Ellen was seated at the end of the table nearest the kitchen. Hooper was at her left, Meadows at her right. Next to Meadows, Daisy Wicker, then an empty space for Brody at the far end of the table, and, opposite Daisy, Dorothy Meadows.

Brody put his left hand behind his back and, standing over Ellen’s right shoulder, poured her a glass of wine. “A glass of Mount Ratchet,” he said. “Very good year, 1970. I remember it well.”

“Enough,” said Ellen, tipping the mouth of the bottle up. “Don’t fill the glass all the way.”

“Sorry,” said Brody, and he filled Meadows’ glass next.

When he had finished pouring the wine, Brody sat down. He looked at the soup in front of him. Then he glanced furtively around the table and saw that the others were actually eating it: it wasn’t a joke. So he took a spoonful. It was cold, and it didn’t taste anything like soup, but it wasn’t bad.

“I love gazpacho,” said Daisy, “but it’s such a pain to make that I don’t have it very often.”

“Mmmm,” said Brody, spooning another mouthful of soup.

“Do you have it very often?”

“No,” he said. “Not too often.”

“Have you ever tried a G and G?”

“Can’t say as I have.”

“You ought to try one. Of course, you might not enjoy it since it’s breaking the law.”

“You mean eating this thing is breaking the law? How? What is it?”

“Grass and gazpacho. Instead of herbs, you sprinkle a little grass over the top. Then you smoke a little, eat a little, smoke a little, eat a little. It’s really wild.”

It was a moment before Brody realized what she was saying, and even when he understood, he didn’t answer right away. He tipped his soup bowl toward himself, scooped out the last little bit of soup, drained his wine glass in one draft, and wiped his mouth with his napkin. He looked at Daisy, who was smiling sweetly at him, and at Ellen, who was smiling at something Hooper was saying.

“It really is,” said Daisy.

Brody decided to be low-keyed — avuncular and nonetheless annoyed, but low-keyed, so as not to upset Ellen. “You know,” he said, “I don’t find…”

“I bet Matt’s tried one.”

“Maybe he has. I don’t see what that…”

Daisy raised her voice and said, “Matt, excuse me.” The conversation at the other end of the table stopped. “I was just curious. Have you ever tried a G and G? By the way, Mrs. Brody, this is terrific gazpacho.”

“Thank you,” said Ellen. “But what’s a G and G?”

“I tried one once,” said Hooper. “But I was never really into that.”

“You must tell me,” Ellen said. “What is it?”

“Matt’ll tell you,” said Daisy, and just as Brody turned to say something to her, she leaned over to Meadows and said, “Tell me more about the water table.”

Brody stood up and began to clear away the soup bowls. As he walked into the kitchen, he felt a slight rush of nausea and dizziness, and his forehead was sweating. But by the time he put the bowls into the sink, the feeling had passed.

Ellen followed him into the kitchen and tied an apron around her waist. “I’ll need some help carving,” she said.

“Okeydoke,” said Brody, and he searched through a drawer for a carving knife and fork. “What did you think of that?”

“Of what?”

“That G and G business. Did Hooper tell you what it is?”

“Yes. That was pretty funny, wasn’t it? I must say, it sounds tasty.”

“How would you know?”

“You never know what we ladies do when we get together over at the hospital. Here, carve.” With a two-tine serving fork, she hefted the lamb onto the carving board. “Slices about three quarters of an inch thick, if you can, the way you’d slice a steak.”

That Wicker bitch was right about one thing, Brody thought as he slashed the meat: I sure as shit feel alienated right now. A slab of meat fell away, and Brody said, “Hey, I thought you said this was lamb.”

“It is.”

“It isn’t even done. Look at that.” He held up the piece he had sliced. It was pink and, toward the middle, almost red.

“That’s the way it’s supposed to be.”

“Not if it’s lamb, it isn’t. Lamb’s supposed to be cooked through, well done.”

“Martin, believe me. It’s all right to cook a butterfly lamb sort of medium. I promise you.”

Brody raised his voice. “I’m not gonna eat raw lamb!”

“Ssshhh! For God’s sake. Can’t you keep your voice down?”

Brody said in a hoarse whisper, “Then put the goddam thing back till it’s done.”

“It’s done!” said Ellen. “If you don’t want to eat it, don’t eat it, but that’s the way I’m going to serve it.”

“Then cut it yourself.” Brody dropped the knife and fork on the carving board, picked up the two bottles of red wine, and left the kitchen.

“There’ll be a slight delay,” he said as he approached the table, “while the cook kills our dinner. She tried to serve it as it was, but it bit her on the leg.” He raised a bottle of wine over one of the clean glasses and said, “I wonder why you’re not allowed to serve red wine in the same glass the white wine was.”

“The tastes,” said Meadows, “don’t complement each other.”

“What you’re saying is, it’ll give you gas.” Brody filled the six glasses and sat down. He took a sip of wine, said, “Good,” then took another sip and another. He refilled his glass.

Ellen came in from the kitchen carrying the carving board. She set it on the sideboard next to a stack of plates. She returned to the kitchen and came back, carrying two vegetable dishes. “I hope it’s good,” she said. “I haven’t tried it before.”

“What is it?” asked Dorothy Meadows. “It smells delicious.”

“Butterfly lamb. Marinated.”

“Really? What’s in the marinade?”

“Ginger, soy sauce, a whole bunch of things.” She put a thick slice of lamb, some asparagus and summer squash on each plate, and passed the plates to Meadows, who sent them down and around the table.

When everyone had been served and Ellen had sat down, Hooper raised his glass and said, “A toast to the chef.”

The others raised their glasses, and Brody said, “Good luck.”

Meadows took a bite of meat, chewed it, savored it, and said, “Fantastic. It’s like the tenderest of sirloins, only better. What a splendid flavor.”

“Coming from you, Harry,” said Ellen, “that’s a special compliment.”

“It’s delicious,” said Dorothy. “Will you promise to give me the recipe? Harry will never forgive me if I don’t give this to him at least once a week.”

“He better rob a bank,” said Brody.

“But it is delicious, Martin, don’t you think?”

Brody didn’t answer. He had started to chew a piece of meat when another wave of nausea hit him. Once again sweat popped out on his forehead. He felt detached, as if his body were controlled by someone else. He sensed panic at the loss of motor control. His fork felt heavy, and for a moment he feared it might slip from his fingers and clatter onto the table. He gripped it with his fist and held on. He was sure his tongue wouldn’t behave if he tried to speak. It was the wine. It had to be the wine. With greatly exaggerated precision, he reached forward to push his wine glass away from him. He slid his fingers along the tablecloth to minimize the chances of knocking over the glass. He sat back and took a deep breath. His vision blurred. He tried to focus his eyes on a painting above Ellen’s head, but he was distracted by the image of Ellen talking to Hooper. Every time she spoke she touched Hooper’s arm — lightly, but, Brody thought, intimately, as if they were sharing secrets. He didn’t hear what anyone was saying. The last thing he remembered hearing was, “Don’t you think?” How long ago was that? Who had said it? He didn’t know. He looked at Meadows, who was talking to Daisy. Then he looked at Dorothy and said thickly, “Yes.”

“What did you say, Martin?” She looked up at him, “Did you say something?”

He couldn’t speak. He wanted to stand and walk out to the kitchen, but he didn’t trust his legs. He’d never make it without holding on to something. Just sit still, he told himself. It’ll pass.

And it did. His head began to clear. Ellen was touching Hooper again. Talk and touch, talk and touch. “Boy, it’s hot,” he said. He stood up and walked, carefully but steadily, to a window and tugged it open. He leaned on the sill and pressed his face against the screen. “Nice night,” he said. He straightened up. “I think I’ll get a glass of water.” He walked into the kitchen and shook his head. He turned on the cold-water tap and rubbed some water on his brow. He filled a glass and drank it down, then refilled it and drank that down. He took a few deep breaths, went back into the dining room, and sat down. He looked at the food on his plate. Then he suppressed a shiver and smiled at Dorothy.

“Any more, anybody?” said Ellen. “There’s plenty here.”

“Indeed,” said Meadows. “But you’d better serve the others first. Left to my own devices, I’d eat the whole thing.”

“And you know what you’d be saying tomorrow,” said Brody.

“What’s that?”

Brody lowered his voice and said gravely, “I can’t believe I ate the whole thing.”

Meadows and Dorothy laughed, and Hooper said, in a high falsetto whine, “No, Ralph, I ate it.” Then even Ellen laughed. It was going to be all right.

By the time dessert was served — coffee ice cream in a pool of creme de cacao — Brody was feeling well. He had two helpings of ice cream, and he chatted amiably with Dorothy. He smiled when Daisy told him a story about lacing the stuffing at last Thanksgiving’s turkey with marijuana.

“My only worry,” said Daisy, “was that my maiden aunt called Thanksgiving morning and asked if she could come for dinner. The turkey was already made and stuffed.”

“So what happened?” said Brody.

“I tried to sneak her some turkey without stuffing, but she made a point of asking for it, so I said what the heck and gave her a big spoonful.”

“And?”

“By the end of the meal she was giggling like a little girl. She even wanted to dance. To Hair yet.”

“It’s a good thing I wasn’t there,” said Brody. “I would have arrested you for corrupting the morals of a maiden.”

They had coffee in the living room, and Brody offered drinks, but only Meadows accepted. “A tiny brandy, if you have it,” he said.

Brody looked at Ellen, as if to ask, do we have any? “In the cupboard, I think,” she said.

Brody poured Meadows’ drink and thought briefly of pouring one for himself. But he resisted, telling himself, Don’t press your luck.

At a little after ten, Meadows yawned and said, “Dorothy, I think we had best take our leave. I find it hard to fulfill the public trust if I stay up too late.”

“I should go, too,” said Daisy. “I have to be at work at eight. Not that we’re selling very much these days.”

“You’re not alone, my dear,” said Meadows.

“I know. But when you work on commission, you really feel it.”

“Well, let’s hope the worst is over. From what I gather from our expert here, there’s a good chance the leviathan has left.” Meadows stood up.

“A chance,” said Hooper. “I hope so.” He rose to go. “I should be on my way, too.”

“Oh, don’t go!” Ellen said to Hooper. The words came out much stronger than she had intended. Instead of a pleasant request, they sounded a shrill plea. She was embarrassed, and she added quickly, “I mean, the night is young. It’s only ten.”

“I know,” said Hooper. “But if the weather’s any good tomorrow, I want to get up early and get into the water.

Besides, I have a car and I can drop Daisy off on my way home.”

Daisy said, “That would be fun.” Her voice, as usual, was without tone or color, suggesting nothing.

“The Meadows can drop her,” Ellen said.

“True,” said Hooper, “but I really should go so I can get up early. But thanks for the thought.”

They said their good-bys at the front door — perfunctory compliments, redundant thanks. Hooper was the last to leave, and when he extended his hand to Ellen, she took it in both of hers and said, “Thank you so much for my shark tooth.”

“You’re welcome. I’m glad you like it.”

“And thank you for being so nice to the children. They were fascinated to meet you.”

“So was I. It was a little weird, though. I must have been about Sean’s age when I knew you before. You haven’t changed much at all.”

“Well, you’ve certainly changed.”

“I hope so. I’d hate to be nine all of my life.”

“We’ll see you again before you go?”

“Count on it.”

“Wonderful.” She released his hand. He said a quick good night to Brody and walked to his car.

Ellen waited at the door until the last of the cars had pulled out of the driveway, then she turned off the outside light. Without a word, she began to pick up the glasses, coffee cups, and ashtrays from the living room.

Brody carried a stack of dessert dishes into the kitchen, set them on the sink, and said, “Well, that was all right.” He meant nothing by the remark, and sought nothing more than rote agreement.

“No thanks to you,” said Ellen.

“What?”

“You were awful.”

“I was?” He was genuinely surprised at the ferocity of her attack. “I know I got a little queasy there for a minute, but I didn’t think—”

“All evening, from start to finish, you were awful.”

“That’s a lot of crap!”

“You’ll wake the children.”

“I don’t give a damn. I’m not going to let you stand there and work out your own hang-ups by telling me I’m a shit.”

Ellen smiled bitterly. “You see? There you go again.”

“Where do I go again? What are you talking about?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Just like that. You don’t want to talk about it. Look… okay, I was wrong about the goddam meat. I shouldn’t have blown my stack. I’m sorry. Now…”

“I said I don’t want to talk about it!”

Brody was ready for a fight, but he backed off, sober enough to realize that his only weapons were cruelty and innuendo, and that Ellen was close to tears. And tears, whether shed in orgasm or in anger, disconcerted him. So he said only, “Well, I’m sorry about that.” He walked out of the kitchen and climbed the stairs.

In the bedroom, as he was undressing, the thought occurred to him that the cause of all the unpleasantness, the source of the whole mess, was a fish: a mindless beast that he had never seen. The ludicrousness of the thought made him smile.

He crawled into bed and, almost simultaneous with the touch of his head to the pillow, fell into a dreamless sleep.

A boy and his date sat drinking beer at one end of the long mahogany bar in the Randy Bear. The boy was eighteen, the son of the pharmacist at the Amity Pharmacy.

“You’ll have to tell him sometime,” said the girl.

“I know. And when I do, he’s gonna go bullshit.”

“It wasn’t your fault.”

“You know what he’ll say? It must have been my fault. I must have done something, or else they would have kept me and canned somebody else.”

“But they fired a lot of kids.”

“They kept a lot, too.”

“How did they decide who to keep?”

“They didn’t say. They just said they weren’t getting enough guests to justify a big staff, so they were letting some of us go. Boy, my old man is gonna go right through the roof.”

“Can’t he call them? He must know somebody there. I mean, if he says you really need the money for college…”

“He wouldn’t do it. That’d be begging.” The boy finished his beer. “There’s only one thing I can do. Deal.”

“Oh, Michael, don’t do that. It’s too dangerous. You could go to jail.”

“That’s quite a choice, isn’t it?” the boy said acidly. “College or jail.”

“What would you tell your father?”

“I don’t know. Maybe I’ll tell him I’m selling belts.”

EIGHT

Brody awoke with a start, jolted by a signal that told him something was wrong. He threw his arm across the bed to touch Ellen. She wasn’t there. He sat and saw her sitting in the chair by the window. Rain splashed against the windowpanes, and he heard the wind whipping through the trees.

“Lousy day, huh?” he said. She didn’t answer, continuing to stare fixedly at the drops sliding down the glass. “How come you’re up so early?”

“I couldn’t sleep.”

Brody yawned. “I sure didn’t have any trouble.”

“I’m not surprised.”

“Oh boy. Are we starting in again?”

Ellen shook her head. “No. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything.” She seemed subdued, sad.

“What’s the matter?”

“Nothing.”

“Whatever you say.” Brody got out of bed and went into the bathroom.

When he had shaved and dressed, he went down to the kitchen. The boys were finishing their breakfast, and Ellen was frying an egg for him. “What are you guys gonna do on this crummy day?” he said.

“Clean lawnmowers,” said Billy, who worked during the summer for a local gardener. “Boy, do I hate rainy days.”

“And what about you two?” Brody said to Martin and Sean.

“Martin’s going to the Boys’ Club,” said Ellen, “and Sean’s spending the day at the Santos’s.”

“And you?”

“I’ve got a full day at the hospital. Which reminds me: I won’t be home for lunch. Can you get something downtown?”

“Sure. I didn’t know you worked a full day Wednesdays.”

“I don’t, usually. But one of the other girls is sick, and I said I’d fill in.”

“Oh.”

“I’ll be back by suppertime.”

“Fine.”

“Do you think you could drop Sean and Martin off on your way to work? I want to do a little shopping on my way to the hospital.”

“No problem.”

“I’ll pick them up on my way home.”

Brody and the two younger children left first. Then Billy, wrapped from head to foot in foul-weather gear, bicycled off to work.

Ellen looked at the clock on the kitchen wall. It was a few minutes to eight. Too early? Maybe. But better to catch him now, before he went off somewhere and the chance was lost. She held her right hand out in front of her and tried to steady the fingers, but they quivered uncontrollably. She smiled at her nervousness and whispered to herself, “Some swinger you’d make.” She went upstairs to the bedroom, sat on the bed, and picked up the green phone book. She found the number for the Abelard Arms Inn, put her hand on the phone, hesitated for a moment, then picked up the receiver and dialed the number.

“Abelard Arms.”

“Mr. Hooper’s room, please. Matt Hooper.”

“Just a minute, please. Hooper. Here it is. Four-oh-five. I’ll ring it for you.”

Ellen heard the phone ring once, then again. She could hear her heart beating, and she saw the pulse throb in her right wrist. Hang up, she told herself. Hang up. There’s time.

“Hello?” said Hooper’s voice.

“Oh.” She thought, Good God, suppose he’s got Daisy Wicker in the room with him.

“Hello?”

Ellen swallowed and said, “Hi. It’s me… I mean it’s Ellen.”

“Oh, hi.”

“I hope I didn’t wake you.”

“No. I was just getting ready to go downstairs and have some breakfast.”

“Good. It’s not a very nice day, is it?”

“No, but I don’t really mind. It’s a luxury for me to be able to sleep this late.”

“Can you… will you be able to work today?”

“I don’t know. I was just trying to figure that out. I sure can’t go out in the boat and hope to get anything done.”

“Oh.” She paused, fighting the dizziness that was creeping up on her. Go ahead, she told herself. Ask the question. “I was wondering…” No, be careful; ease into it. “I wanted to thank you for the beautiful charm.”

“You’re welcome. I’m glad you like it. But I should be thanking you. I had a good time last night.”

“I did… we did, too. I’m glad you came.”

“Yes.”

“It was like old times.”

“Yes.”

Now, she said to herself. Do it. The words spilled from her mouth. “I was wondering, if you can’t do any work today, I mean if you can’t go out in the boat or anything, I was wondering if… if there was any chance you’d like to… if you’re free for lunch.”

“Lunch?”

“Yes. You know, if you have nothing else to do, I thought we might have some lunch.”

“We? You mean you and the chief and me?”

“No, just you and I. Martin usually has lunch at his desk. I don’t want to interfere with your plans or anything. I mean, if you’ve got a lot of work to do…”

“No, no. That’s okay. Heck, why not? Sure. What did you have in mind?”

“There’s a wonderful place up in Sag Harbor. Banner’s. Do you know it?” She hoped he didn’t. She didn’t know it, either, which meant that no one there would know her. But she had heard that it was good and quiet and dark.

“No, I’ve never been there,” said Hooper. “But Sag Harbor. That’s quite a hike for lunch.”

“It’s not bad, really, only about fifteen or twenty minutes. I could meet you there whenever you like.”

“Any time’s all right with me.”

“Around twelve-thirty, then?”

“Twelve-thirty it is. See you then.”

Ellen hung up the phone. Her hands were still shaking, but she felt elated, excited. Her senses seemed alive and incredibly keen. Every time she drew a breath she savored the smells around her. Her ears jingled with a symphony of tiny house sounds — creaks and rustles and thumps. She felt more intensely feminine than she had in years — a warm, wet feeling both delicious and uncomfortable.

She went into the bathroom and took a shower. She shaved her legs and under her arms. She wished she had bought one of those feminine hygiene deodorants she had seen advertised, but, lacking that, she powdered herself and daubed cologne behind her ears, inside her elbows, behind her knees, on her nipples, and on her genitals.

There was a full-length mirror in the bedroom, and she stood before it, examining herself. Were the goods good enough? Would the offering be accepted? She had worked to keep in shape, to preserve the smoothness and sinuousness of youth. She could not bear the thought of rejection.

The goods were good. The lines in her neck were few and barely noticeable. Her face was unblemished and unscarred. There were no droops or sags or pouches. She stood straight and admired the contours of her breasts. Her waist was slim, her belly flat — the reward for endless hours of exercise after each child. The only problem, as she assessed her body critically, was her hips. By no stretch of anyone’s imagination were they girlish. They signaled motherhood. They were, as Brody once said, breeder’s hips. The recollection brought a quick flash of remorse, but excitement quickly nudged it aside. Her legs were long and — below the pad of fat on her rear — slender. Her ankles were delicate, and her feet — with the toenails nearly pruned — were perfect enough to suit any pediphile.

She dressed in her hospital clothes. From the back of her closet she took a plastic shopping bag into which she put a pair of bikini underpants, a bra, a neatly folded lavender summer dress, a pair of low-heeled pumps, a can of spray deodorant, a plastic bottle of bath powder, a toothbrush and a tube of toothpaste. She carried the bag to the garage, tossed it into the back seat of her Volkswagen beetle, backed out of the driveway, and drove to the Southampton Hospital.

The dull drive increased the fatigue she had been feeling for hours. She had not slept all night. She had first lain in bed, then sat by the window, struggling with all the twistings of emotion and conscience, desire and regret, longing and recrimination. She didn’t know exactly when she had decided on this manifestly rash, dangerous plan. She had been thinking about it — and trying not to think about it — since the day she first met Hooper. She had weighed the risks and, somehow, calculated that they were worth taking, though she was not entirely sure what she could gain from the adventure. She knew she wanted change, almost any change. She wanted to be assured and reassured that she was desirable — not just to her husband, for she had grown complacent about that, but to the people she saw as her real peers, the people among whom she still numbered herself. She felt that without some remedy, the part of herself that she most cherished would die. Perhaps the past could never be revived. But perhaps it could be recalled physically as well as mentally. She wanted an injection, a transfusion of the essence of her past, and she saw Matt Hooper as the only possible donor. The thought of love never entered her mind. Nor did she want or anticipate a relationship either profound or enduring. She sought only to be serviced, restored.

She was grateful that the work assigned her when she arrived at the hospital demanded concentration and conversation, for it prevented her from thinking. She and another volunteer changed the bedding of the elderly patients for whom the hospital community was a surrogate — and, in some cases, final — home. She had to remember the names of children in distant cities, had to fashion new excuses for why they hadn’t written. She had to feign recollection of the plots of television shows and speculate on why such-and-such a character had left his wife for a woman who was patently an adventuress.

At 11.45, Ellen told the supervisor of volunteers that she didn’t feel well. Her thyroid was acting up again, she said, and she was getting her period. She thought she’d go lie down for a while in the staff lounge. And if a nap didn’t help, she said, she’d probably go home. In fact, if she wasn’t back on the job by 1.30 or so, the supervisor could assume she had gone home. It was an explanation that she hoped was vague enough to discourage anyone from actively looking for her.

She went into the lounge, counted to twenty, and opened the door a crack to see if the corridor was empty. It was; most of the staff were in, or on their way to, the cafeteria on the other side of the building. She stepped into the corridor, closed the door softly behind her, and hurried around a corner and out a side door of the hospital that led to the staff parking lot.

She drove most of the way to Sag Harbor, then stopped at a gas station. When the tank was full and the gas paid for, she asked to use the ladies’ room. The attendant gave her the key, and she pulled her car around to the side of the station, next to the ladies’ room door. She opened the door, but before going into the ladies’ room she returned the key to the attendant. She walked to her car, removed the plastic bag from the back seat, entered the ladies’ room, and pushed the button that locked the door.

She stripped, and standing on the cold floor in her bare feet, looking at her reflection in the mirror above the sink, she felt a thrill of risk. She sprayed deodorant under her arms and on her feet. She took the clean underpants from the plastic bag and stepped into them. She shook a little powder into each cup of the bra and put it on. She took the dress from the bag, unfolded it, checked it for wrinkles, and slipped it over her head. She poured powder into each of her shoes, brushed off the bottom of each foot with a paper towel, and put on the shoes. Then she brushed her teeth and combed her hair, stuffed her hospital clothes into the plastic bag, and opened the door. She looked both ways, saw that no one was watching her, then stepped out of the ladies’ room, tossed the bag into the car, and got in.

As she drove out of the gas station, she hunched down in her seat so the attendant, if he should chance to notice her, would not see that she had changed clothes.

It was 12.15 when she arrived at Banner’s, a small steak-and-seafood restaurant on the water in Sag Harbor. The parking lot was in the rear, for which she was grateful. On the off-chance that someone she knew might drive down the street in Sag Harbor, she didn’t want her car in plain view.

One reason she had picked Banner’s was that it was known as a favorite nighttime restaurant for yachtsmen and summer people, which meant that it probably had little luncheon trade. And it was expensive, which made it almost certain that no year-round residents, no local tradesmen, would go there for lunch. Ellen checked her wallet. She had nearly fifty dollars — all the emergency cash she and Brody kept in the house. She made a mental note of the bills: a twenty, two tens, a five, and three ones. She wanted to replace exactly what she had taken from the coffee can in the kitchen closet.

There were two other cars in the parking lot, a Chevrolet Vega and a bigger car, tan. She remembered that Hooper’s car was green and that it was named after some animal. She left her car and walked into the restaurant, holding her hands over her head to protect her hair from the light rain.

The restaurant was dark, but because the day was gloomy it took her eyes only a few seconds to adjust. There was only one room, with a bar on the right as she walked in and about twenty tables in the center. The left-hand wall was lined with eight booths. The walls were dark wood, decorated with bullfight and movie posters.

A couple — in their late twenties, Ellen guessed — was having a drink at a table by the window. The bartender, a young man with a Vandyke beard and a button-down shirt, sat by the cash register reading the New York Daily News. They were the only people in the room. Ellen looked at her watch. Almost 12.30.

The bartender looked up and said, “Hi. Can I help you?”

Ellen stepped to the bar. “Yes… yes. In a minute. But first I’d like… can you tell me where the ladies’ room is?”

“End of the bar, turn right. First door on your left.”

“Thank you.” Ellen walked quickly down the length of the bar, turned right, and went into the ladies’ room.

She stood in front of the mirror and held out her right hand. It trembled, and she clenched it into a fist. Calm down, she said to herself. You have to calm down or it’s no use. It’s lost. She felt that she was sweating, but when she put a hand inside her dress and felt her arm-pit, it was dry. She combed her hair and surveyed her teeth. She remembered something a boy she had once gone out with had said: Nothing turns my stomach faster than seeing a girl with a big piece of crud between her teeth. She looked at her watch: 12.35.

She went back into the restaurant and looked around. Just the same couple, the bartender, and a waitress standing at the bar, folding napkins.

The waitress saw Ellen come around the corner of the bar, and she said, “Hello. May I help you?”

“Yes. I’d like a table, please. For lunch.”

“For one?”

“No. Two.”

“Fine,” said the waitress. She put down a napkin, picked up a pad, and walked Ellen to a table in the middle of the room. “Is this all right?”

“No. I mean, yes. It’s fine. But I’d like to have that table in the corner booth, if you don’t mind.”

“Sure,” said the waitress. “Any table you like. We’re not exactly full.” She led Ellen to the table, and Ellen slipped into the booth with her back to the door. Hooper would be able to find her. If he came. “Can I get you a drink?”

“Yes. A gin and tonic, please.” When the waitress left the table, Ellen smiled. It was the first time since her wedding that she had had a drink during the day.

The waitress brought the drink, and Ellen drank half of it immediately, eager to feel the relaxing warmth of alcohol. Every few seconds, she checked the door and looked at her watch. He’s not going to come, she thought. It was almost 12.45. He got cold feet. He’s scared of Martin. Maybe he’s scared of me. What will I do if he doesn’t come? I guess I’ll have some lunch and go back to work. He’s got to come! He can’t do this to me.

“Hello.”

The word startled Ellen. She hopped in her seat and said, “Oh!”

Hooper slid into the seat opposite her and said, “I didn’t mean to scare you. And I’m sorry I’m late. I had to stop for gas, and the station was jammed. The traffic was terrible. And so much for my excuses. I should have left more time. I am sorry.” He looked into her eyes and smiled.

She looked down at her glass. “You don’t have to apologize. I was late myself.”

The waitress came to the table. “Can I get you a drink?” she said to Hooper.

He noticed Ellen’s glass and said, “Oh, sure, I guess so. If you are. I’ll have a gin and tonic.”

“I’ll have another one,” said Ellen. “This one’s almost finished.”

The waitress left, and Hooper said, “I don’t normally drink at lunch.”

“Neither do I.”

“After about three drinks I say stupid things. I never did hold my liquor very well.”

Ellen nodded. “I know the feeling. I tend to get sort of…”

“Impetuous? So do I.”

“Really? I can’t imagine you getting impetuous. I thought scientists weren’t ever impetuous.”

Hooper smiled and said histrionically, “It may seem, madam, that we are wed to our test tubes. But beneath the icy exteriors there beat the hearts of some of the most brazen, raunchy people in the world.”

Ellen laughed. The waitress brought the drinks and left two menus on the edge of the table. They talked — chatted, really — about old times, about people they had known and what those people were doing now, about Hooper’s ambitions in ichthyology. They never mentioned the shark or Brody or Ellen’s children. It was an easy, rambling conversation, which suited Ellen. Her second drink loosened her up, and she felt happy and in command of herself.

She wanted Hooper to have another drink, and she knew he was not likely to take the initiative and order one. She picked up one of the menus, hoping that the waitress would notice the movement, and said, “Let me see. What looks good?”

Hooper picked up the other menu and began to read, and after a minute or two, the waitress strolled over to the table. “Are you ready to order?”

“Not quite yet,” said Ellen. “It all looks good. Are you ready, Matthew?”

“Not quite,” said Hooper.

“Why don’t we have one more drink while we’re looking?”

“Both?” said the waitress.

Hooper seemed to ponder for a moment. Then he nodded his head and said, “Sure. A special occasion.”

They sat in silence, reading the menus. Ellen tried to assess how she felt. Three drinks would be a fairly heavy load for her to carry, and she wanted to make sure she didn’t get fuzzy-headed or fuzzy-tongued. What was that saying, about alcohol increasing the desire but taking away from the performance? But that’s just with men, she thought. I’m glad I don’t have to worry about that. But what about him? Suppose he can’t… Is there anything I can do? But that’s silly. Not on two drinks. It must take five or six or seven. A man has to be incapacitated. But not if he’s scared. Does he look scared? She peeked over the top of her menu and looked at Hooper. He didn’t look nervous. If anything, he looked slightly perplexed.

“What’s the matter?” she said.

He looked up. “What do you mean?”

“Your eyebrows were all scrunched up. You looked confused.”

“Oh, nothing. I was just looking at the scallops, or what they claim are scallops. The chances are they’re flounder, cut up with a cookie cutter.”

The waitress brought their drinks and said, “Ready?”

“Yes,” said Ellen. “I’ll have the shrimp cocktail and the chicken.”

“What kind of dressing would you like on your salad? We have French, Roquefort, Thousand Island, and oil and vinegar.”

“Roquefort, please.”

Hooper said, “Are these really bay scallops?”

“I guess so,” said the waitress. “If that’s what it says.”

“All right. I’ll have the scallops, and French dressing on the salad.”

“Anything to start?”

“No,” said Hooper, raising his glass. “This’ll be fine.”

In a few minutes, the waitress brought Ellen’s shrimp cocktail. When she had left, Ellen said, “Do you know what I’d love? Some wine.”

“That’s a very interesting idea,” Hooper said, looking at her. “But remember what I said about impetuousness. I may become irresponsible.”

“I’m not worried.” As Ellen spoke, she felt a blush crawl up her cheeks.

“Okay, but first I better check the treasury.” He reached in his back pocket for his wallet.

“Oh no. This is my treat.”

“Don’t be silly.”

“No, really. I asked you to lunch.” She began to panic. It had never occurred to her that he might insist on paying. She didn’t want to annoy him by sticking him with a big bill. On the other hand, she didn’t want to seem patronizing, to offend his virility.

“I know,” he said. “But I’d like to take you to lunch.”

Was this a gambit? She couldn’t tell. If it was, she didn’t want to refuse it, but if he was just being polite… “You’re sweet,” she said, “but…”

“I’m serious. Please.”

She looked down and toyed with the one shrimp remaining on her plate. “Well…”

“I know you’re only being thoughtful,” Hooper said, “but don’t be. Didn’t David ever tell you about our grandfather?”

“Not that I remember. What about him?”

“Old Matt was known — and not very affectionately — as the Bandit. If he was alive today, I’d probably be at the head of the pack calling for his scalp. But he isn’t, so all I had to worry about was whether to keep the bundle of money he left me or give it away. It wasn’t a very difficult moral dilemma. I figure I can spend it as well as anyone I’d give it to.”

“Does David have a lot of money, too?”

“Yes. That’s one of the things about him that’s always baffled me. He’s got enough to support himself and any number of wives for life. So why did he settle on a meatball for a second wife? Because she has more money than he does. I don’t know. Maybe money doesn’t feel comfortable unless it’s married to money.”

“What did your grandfather do?”

“Railroads and mining. Technically, that is. Basically, he was a robber baron. At one point he owned most of Denver. He was the landlord of the whole red-light district.”

“That must have been profitable.”

“Not as much as you’d think,” Hooper said with a laugh. “From what I hear, he liked to collect his rent in trade.”

That might be a gambit, Ellen thought. What should she say? “That’s supposed to be every schoolgirl’s fantasy,” she ventured playfully.

“What is?”

“To be a… you know, a prostitute. To sleep with a whole lot of different men.”

“Was it yours?”

Ellen laughed, hoping to cover her blush. “I don’t remember if it was exactly that,” she said. “But I guess we all have fantasies of one kind or another.”

Hooper smiled and leaned back in his chair. He called the waitress over and said, “Bring us a bottle of cold Chablis, would you please?”

Something’s happened, Ellen thought. She wondered if he could sense — smell? like an animal? — the invitation she had extended. Whatever it was, he had taken the offensive. All she had to do was avoid discouraging him.

The food came, followed a moment later by the wine. Hooper’s scallops were the size of marshmallows. “Flounder,” he said after the waitress had left. “I should have known.”

“How can you tell?” Ellen asked. Immediately she wished she hadn’t said anything. She didn’t want to let the conversation drift.

“They’re too big, for one thing. And the edges are too perfect. They were obviously cut.”

“I suppose you could send them back.” She hoped he wouldn’t; a quarrel with the waitress could spoil their mood.

“I might,” said Hooper, and he grinned at Ellen. “Under different circumstances.” He poured Ellen a glass of wine, then filled his own and raised it for a toast. “To fantasies,” he said. “Tell me about yours.” His eyes were a bright, liquid blue, and his lips were parted in a half smile.

Ellen laughed. “Oh, mine aren’t very interesting. I imagine they’re just your old run-of-the-mill fantasies.”

“There’s no such thing,” said Hooper. “Tell me.” He was asking, not demanding, but Ellen felt that the game she had started demanded that she answer.

“Oh, you know,” she said. Her stomach felt warm, and the back of her neck was hot. “Just the standard things. Rape, I guess, is one.”

“How does it happen?”

She tried to think, and she remembered the times when, alone, she would let her mind wander and conjure the carnal images. Usually she was in bed, often with her husband asleep beside her. Sometimes she found that, without knowing it, she had been rubbing her hand over her vagina, caressing herself.

“Different ways,” she said.

“Name one.”

“Sometimes I’m in the kitchen in the morning, after everybody has left, and a workman from one of the houses next door comes to my back door. He wants to use the phone or have a glass of water.” She stopped.

“And then?”

“I let him in the door and he threatens to kill me if I don’t do what he wants.”

“Does he hurt you?”

“Oh no. I mean, he doesn’t stab me or anything.”

“Does he hit you?”

“No. He just… rapes me.”

“Is it fun?”

“Not at first. It’s scary. But then, after a while, when he’s…”

“When he’s got you all… ready.”

Ellen’s eyes moved to his, reading the remark for humor, irony, or cruelty. She saw none. Hooper ran his tongue over his lips and leaned forward until his face was only a foot or so from hers.

Ellen thought: The door’s open now; all you have to do is walk through it. She said, “Yes.”

“Then it’s fun.”

“Yes.” She shifted in her seat, for the recollection was becoming physical.

“Do you ever have an orgasm?”

“Sometimes,” she said. “Not always.”

“Is he big?”

“Tall? Not…”

They had been speaking very softly, and now Hooper lowered his voice to a whisper. “I don’t mean tall. Is he… you know… big?”

“Usually,” said Ellen, and she chuckled. “Huge.”

“Is he black?”

“No. I’ve heard that some women have fantasies about being raped by black men, but I never have.”

“Tell me another one.”

“Oh no,” she said, laughing. “Now it’s your turn.”

They heard footsteps and turned to see the waitress approaching their table. “Is everything all right?” she said.

“Fine,” Hooper said curtly. “Everything’s fine.” The waitress left.

Ellen whispered, “Do you think she heard?”

Hooper leaned forward. “Not a chance. Now tell me another one.”

It’s going to happen, Ellen thought, and she felt suddenly nervous. She wanted to tell him why she was behaving this way, to explain that she didn’t do this all the time. He probably thinks I’m a whore. Forget it. Don’t get sappy or you’ll ruin it. “No,” she said with a smile. “It’s your turn.”

“Mine are usually orgies,” he said. “Or at least threesies.”

“What are threesies?”

“Three people. Me and two girls.”

“Greedy. What do you do?”

“It varies. Everything imaginable.”

“Are you… big?” she said.

“Bigger every minute. What about you?”

“I don’t know. Compared to what?”

“To other women. Some women have really tight ones.”

Ellen giggled. “You sound like a comparison-shopper.”

“Just a conscientious consumer.”

“I don’t know how I am,” she said. “I haven’t anything to compare it to.” She looked down at her half-eaten chicken, and she laughed.

“What’s funny?” he asked.

“I was just wondering,” she said, and her laughter built. “I was just wondering if — oh, Lord, I’m getting a pain in my side — if chickens have…”

“Of course!” said Hooper. “But talk about a tightie!”

They laughed together, and when the laughter faded, Ellen impulsively said, “Let’s make a fantasy.”

“Okay. How do you want to start?”

“What would you do to me if we were going to… you know.”

“That’s a very interesting question,” he said with mock gravity. “Before considering the what, however, we’d have to consider the where. I suppose there’s always my room.”

“Too dangerous. Everybody knows me at the Abelard. Anywhere in Amity would be too dangerous.”

“What about your house?”

“Lord, no. Suppose one of my children came home. Besides…”

“I know. No desecrating the conjugal sheets. Okay, where else?”

“There must be motels between here and Montauk. Or even better, between here and Orient Point.”

“Fair enough. Even if there’s not, there’s always the car.”

“In broad daylight? You do have wild fantasies.”

“In fantasies, anything is possible.”

“All right. That’s settled. So what would you do?”

“I think we should proceed chronologically. First of all, we’d leave here in one car. Probably mine, because it’s least known. And we’d come back later to pick up yours.”

“Okay.”

“Then while we were driving along… no, even before that, before we left here, I’d send you into the ladies’ room and tell you to take off your panties.”

“Why?”

“So I could… explore you while we’re on the road. Just to keep the motors running.”

“I see,” she said, trying to seem matter-of-fact. She felt hot, flushed, and sensed that her mind was floating somewhere apart from her body. She was a third person listening to the conversation. She had to fight to keep from shifting on the Leatherette bench. She wanted to squirm back and forth, to move her thighs up and down. But she was afraid of leaving a stain on the seat.

“Then,” said Hooper, “while we were driving along, you might be sitting on my right hand and I’d be giving you a massage. Maybe I’d have my fly open. Maybe not, though, because you might get ideas, which would undoubtedly cause me to lose control, and that would probably cause a massive accident that would leave us both dead.”

Ellen started to giggle again, imagining the sight of Hooper lying by the side of the road, stiff as a flagpole, and herself lying next to him, her dress bunched up around her waist and her vagina yawning open, glistening wet, for the world to see.

“We’d try to find a motel,” said Hooper, “where the rooms are either in separate cabins or at least not butted fight up against each other, wall to wall.”

“Why?”

“Noise. The walls are usually made of Kleenex and spit, and we wouldn’t want to be inhibited by the thought of a shoe salesman in the next room pressing his ear to the wall and getting his kicks listening to us.”

“Suppose you couldn’t find a motel like that.”

“We would,” said Hooper. “As I said, in a fantasy anything is possible.”

Why does he keep saying that? Ellen thought. He can’t really be playing a word game, working up a fantasy he has no intention of fulfilling. Her mind scrambled for a question to keep the conversation alive. “What name would you register us under?”

“Ah yes. I’d forgotten. These days I can’t conceive of anyone getting uptight about something like this, but you’re right: we should have a name, just in case we ran into an old-fashioned innkeeper. How about Mr. and Mrs. Al Kinsey. We could say we were on an extended field trip for research.”

“And we’d tell him we’d send him an autographed copy of our report.”

“We’d dedicate it to him!”

They both laughed, and Ellen said, “What about after we registered?”

“Well, we’d drive to wherever our room was, scout around to see if anyone seemed to be in the rooms nearby — unless we had a cabin to ourselves — and then go inside.”

“And then?”

“That’s when our options broaden. I’d probably be so turned on that I’d grab you, let you have it — maybe on the bed, maybe not. That time would be my time. Your time would come later.”

“What do you mean?”

“The first time would be out of control — a slam-bam-thank-you-ma’am deal. After that, I’d have more control, and the second time I could prepare you.”

“How would you do that?”

“With delicacy and finesse.”

The waitress was approaching the table, so they sat back and stopped talking.

“Will there be anything else?”

“No,” said Hooper. “Just the check.”

Ellen assumed that the waitress would return to the bar to total the bill, but she stood at the table, scribbling and carrying her ones. Ellen slid to the edge of the seat and said as she stood up, “Excuse me. I want to powder my nose before we go.”

“I know,” said Hooper, smiling.

“You do?” said the waitress as Ellen passed her. “Boy, that’s what marriage will do for you. I hope nobody ever knows me that well.”

Ellen arrived home a little before 4.30. She went upstairs, into the bathroom, and turned on the water in the tub. She took off all her clothes and stuffed them into the laundry hamper, mixing them with the clothes already in the hamper. She looked in the mirror and examined her face and neck. No marks.

After her bath, she powdered herself, brushed her teeth, and gargled with mouthwash. She went into the bedroom, put on a fresh pair of underpants and a nightgown, pulled back the bedclothes and climbed into bed. She closed her eyes, hoping that sleep would pounce upon her.

But sleep could not overpower a memory that kept sliding into her mind. It was a vision of Hooper, eyes wide and staring — but unseeing — at the wall as he approached climax. The eyes seemed to bulge until, just before release, Ellen had feared they might actually pop out of their sockets. Hooper’s teeth were clenched, and he ground them the way people do during sleep. From his voice there came a gurgling whine, whose tone rose higher and higher with each frenzied thrust. Even after his obvious, violent climax, Hooper’s countenance had not changed. His teeth were still clenched, his eyes still fixed on the wall, and he continued to pump madly. He was oblivious of the being beneath him, and when, perhaps a full minute after his climax, Hooper still did not relax, Ellen had become afraid — of what, she wasn’t sure, but the ferocity and intensity of his assault seemed to her a pursuit in which she was only a vehicle. After a while, she had tapped him on the back and said softly, “Hey, I’m here too,” and in a moment his eyelids closed and his head dropped to her shoulder. Later, during their subsequent coupling, Hooper had been more gentle, more controlled, less detached. But the fury of the first encounter still lingered disturbingly in Ellen’s mind.

Finally, her mind gave in to fatigue, and she fell asleep.

Almost instantly, it seemed, she was awakened by a voice that said, “Hey there, are you okay?” She opened her eyes and saw Brody sitting on the end of the bed.

She yawned. “What time is it?”

“Almost six.”

“Oh-oh. I’ve got to pick up Sean. Phyllis Santos must be having a fit.”

“I got him,” said Brody. “I figured I’d better, once I couldn’t reach you.”

“You tried to reach me?”

“A couple of times. I tried you at the hospital at around two. They said they thought you’d come home.”

“That’s right. I did. I felt awful. My thyroid pills aren’t doing what they should. So I came home.”

“Then I tried to reach you here.”

“My, it must have been important.”

“No, it was nothing important. If you must know, I was calling to apologize for whatever I did that got you upset last night.”

A twinge of shame struck Ellen, but it passed, and she said, “You’re sweet, but don’t worry. I’d already forgotten about it.”

“Oh,” said Brody. He waited a moment to see if she was going to say anything else, and when it was clear she wasn’t, he said, “So where were you?”

“I told you, here!” The words came out more harshly than she had intended. “I came home and went to bed, and that’s where you found me.”

“And you didn’t hear the phone? It’s right there.” Brody pointed to the bed table near the other side of the bed.

“No, I…” She started to say she had turned the phone off, but then she remembered that this particular phone couldn’t be turned off all the way. “I took a pill. The moaning of the damned won’t wake me after I’ve taken one of those pills.”

Brody shook his head. “I really am going to throw those damn things down the john. You’re turning into a junkie.” He stood and went into the bathroom.

Ellen heard him flip up the toilet seat and begin to urinate — a loud, powerful, steady stream that went on and on and on. She smiled. Until today, she had assumed Brody was some kind of urinary freak: he could go for almost a day without urinating. Then, when he did pee, he seemed to pee forever. Long ago, she had concluded that his bladder was the size of a watermelon. Now she knew that huge bladder capacity was simply a male trait. Now, she said to herself, I am a woman of the world.

“Have you heard from Hooper?” Brody called over the noise of the endless stream.

Ellen thought for a moment about her response, then said, “He called this morning, just to say thank you. Why?”

“I tried to get hold of him today, too. Around midday and a couple of times during the afternoon. The hotel said they didn’t know where he was. What time did he call here?”

“Just after you left for work.”

“Did he say what he was going to be doing?”

“He said… he said he might try to work on the boat, I think. I really don’t remember.”

“Oh. That’s funny.”

“What is?”

“I stopped by the dock on my way home. The harbor master said he hadn’t seen Hooper all day.”

“Maybe he changed his mind.”

“He was probably shagging Daisy Wicker in some hotel room.”

Ellen heard the stream slow, then dwindle into droplets. Then she heard the toilet flush.

NINE

On Thursday morning Brody got a call summoning him to Vaughan’s office for a noon meeting of the Board of Selectmen. He knew what the subject of the meeting was: opening the beaches for the Fourth of July weekend that would begin the day after tomorrow. By the time he left his office for the town hall, he had marshaled and examined every argument he could think of.

He knew his arguments were subjective, negative, based on intuition, caution, and an abiding, gnawing guilt. But Brody was convinced he was right. Opening the beaches would not be a solution or a conclusion. It would be a gamble that Amity — and Brody — could never really win. They would never know for certain that the shark had gone away. They would be living from day to day, hoping for a continuing draw. And one day, Brody was sure, they would lose.

The town hall stood at the head of Main Street, where Main dead-ended and was crossed by Water Street. The building was a crown at the top of the T formed by Main and Water streets. It was an imposing, pseudo-Georgian affair — red brick with white trim and two white columns framing the entrance. A World War II howitzer sat on the lawn in front of the town hall, a memorial to the citizens of Amity who had served in the war.

The building had been given to the town in the late 1920s by an investment banker who had somehow convinced himself that Amity would one day be the hub of commerce on eastern Long Island. He felt that the town’s public officials should work in a building befitting their destiny — not, as had been the case until then, conducting the town’s business in a tiny suite of airless rooms above a saloon called the Mill. (In February, 1930, the distraught banker, who had proved no more adept at predicting his own destiny than Amity’s, tried, unsuccessfully, to reclaim the building, insisting he had intended only to loan it to the town.)

The rooms inside the town hall were as preposterously grandiose as the exterior. They were huge and high-ceilinged, each with its own elaborate chandelier. Rather than pay to remodel the interior into small cubicles, successive Amity administrations had simply jammed more and more people into each room. Only the mayor was still permitted to perform his part-time duties in solitary splendor.

Vaughan’s office was on the southeast corner of the second floor, overlooking most of the town and, in the distance, the Atlantic Ocean.

Vaughan’s secretary, a wholesome, pretty woman named Janet Sumner, sat at a desk outside the mayor’s office. Though he saw her seldom, Brody was paternally fond of Janet, and he was idly mystified that — aged about twenty-six — she was still unmarried. He usually made a point of inquiring about her love life before he entered Vaughan’s office. Today he said simply, “Are they all inside?”

“All that’s coming.” Brody started into the office, and Janet said, “Don’t you want to know who I’m going out with?”

He stopped, smiled, and said, “Sure. I’m sorry. My mind’s a mess today. So who is it?”

“Nobody. I’m in temporary retirement. But I’ll tell you one thing.” She lowered her voice and leaned forward. “I wouldn’t mind playing footsie with that Mr. Hooper.”

“Is he in there?”

Janet nodded.

“I wonder when he was elected selectman.”

“I don’t know,” she said. “But he sure is cute.”

“Sorry, Jan, he’s spoken for.”

“By who?”

“Daisy Wicker.”

Janet laughed.

“What’s funny? I just broke your heart.”

“You don’t know about Daisy Wicker?”

“I guess I don’t.”

Again Janet lowered her voice. “She’s queer. She’s got a lady roommate and everything. She’s not even AC-DC. She’s just plain old DC.”

“I’ll be damned,” said Brody. “You sure do have an interesting job, Jan.” As he entered the office, Brody said to himself: Okay, so where the hell was Hooper yesterday?

As soon as he was inside the office, Brody knew he would be fighting alone. The only selectmen present were longtime friends and allies of Vaughan’s: Tony Catsoulis, a builder who looked like a fire hydrant; Ned Thatcher, a frail old man whose family had owned the Abelard Arms Inn for three generations; Paul Conover, owner of Amity Liquors; and Rafe Lopez (pronounced loaps), a dark-skinned Portuguese elected to the board by, and a vocal defender of, the town’s black community.

The four selectmen sat around a coffee table at one end of the immense room. Vaughan sat at his desk at the other end of the room. Hooper stood at a southerly window, staring out at the sea.

“Where’s Albert Morris?” Brody said to Vaughan after perfunctorily greeting the others.

“He couldn’t make it,” said Vaughan. “I don’t think he felt well.”

“And Fred Potter?”

“Same thing. There must be a bug going around.” Vaughan stood up. “Well, I guess we’re all here. Grab a chair and pull it over by the coffee table.”

God, he looks awful, Brody thought as he watched Vaughan drag a straight-back chair across the room. Vaughan’s eyes were sunken and dark. His skin looked like mayonnaise. Either he’s got some fierce hangover, Brody decided, or else he hasn’t slept in a month.

When everyone was seated, Vaughan said, “You all know why we’re here. And I guess it’s safe to say that there’s only one of us that needs convincing about what we should do.”

“You mean me,” said Brody.

Vaughan nodded. “Look at it from our point of view, Martin. The town is dying. People are out of work. Stores that were going to open aren’t. People aren’t renting houses, let alone buying them. And every day we keep the beaches closed, we drive another nail into our own coffin. We’re saying, officially, this town is unsafe: stay away from here. And people are listening.”

“Suppose you do open the beaches for the Fourth, Larry,” said Brody. “And suppose someone gets killed.”

“It’s a calculated risk, but I think — we think — it’s worth taking.”

“Why?”

Vaughan said, “Mr. Hooper?”

“Several reasons,” said Hooper. “First of all, nobody’s seen the fish in a week.”

“Nobody’s been in the water, either.”

“That’s true. But I’ve been on the boat looking for him every day — every day but one.”

“I meant to ask you about that. Where were you yesterday?”

“It rained,” said Hooper. “Remember?”

“So what did you do?”

“I just…” He paused momentarily, then said, “I studied some water samples. And read.”

“Where? In your hotel room?”

“Part of the time, yeah. What are you driving at?”

“I called your hotel. They said you were out all afternoon.”

“So I was out!” Hooper said angrily. “I don’t have to report in every five minutes, do I?”

“No. But you’re here to do a job, not go gallivanting around all those country clubs you used to belong to.”

“Listen, mister, you’re not paying me. I can do whatever the fuck I want!”

Vaughan broke in. “Come on. This isn’t getting anybody anywhere.”

“Anyway,” said Hooper, “I haven’t seen a trace of that fish. Not a sign. Then there’s the water. It’s getting warmer every day. It’s almost seventy now. As a rule — I know, rules are made to be broken — great whites prefer cooler water.”

“So you think he’s gone farther north?”

“Or out deeper, into colder water. He could even have gone south. You can’t predict what these things are going to do.”

“That’s my point,” said Brody. “You can’t predict it. So all you’re doing is guessing.”

Vaughan said, “You can’t ask for a guarantee, Martin.”

“Tell that to Christine Watkins. Or the Kintner boy’s mother.”

“I know, I know,” Vaughan said impatiently. “But we have to do something. We can’t sit around waiting for divine revelation. God isn’t going to scribble across the sky, ‘The shark is gone.’ We have to weigh the evidence and make a decision.”

Brody nodded. “I guess. So what else has the boy genius come up with?”

“What’s the matter with you?” said Hooper. “I was asked for my opinion.”

“Sure,” said Brody. “Okay. What else?”

“What we’ve known all along. That there’s no reason for that fish to hang around here. I haven’t seen him. The Coast Guard hasn’t seen him. No news has popped up from the bottom. No garbage scows are dumping stuff into the water. No extraordinary fish life is around. There’s just no reason for him to be here.”

“But there never has been, has there? And he was here.”

“That’s true. I can’t explain it. I doubt if anyone can.”

“An act of God, then?”

“If you like.”

“And there’s no insurance against acts of God, is there, Larry?”

“I don’t know what you’re getting at, Martin,” said Vaughan. “But we’ve got to make a decision. As far as I’m concerned, there’s only one way to go.”

“The decision’s been made,” said Brody.

“You could say that, yes.”

“And when someone else gets killed? Who’s taking the blame this time? Who’s going to talk to the husband or the mother or the wife and tell them, ‘We were just playing the odds, and we lost’?”

“Don’t be so negative, Martin. When the time comes — if the time comes, and I’m betting it won’t — we’ll work that out then.”

“Now, goddammit! I’m sick of taking all the shit for your mistakes.”

“Wait a minute, Martin.”

“I’m serious. If you want the authority for opening the beaches, then you take the responsibility, too.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying that as long as I’m chief of police in this town, as long as I’m supposed to be responsible for public safety, those beaches will not be open.”

“I’ll tell you this, Martin,” said Vaughan. “If those beaches stay closed over the Fourth of July weekend, you won’t have your job very long. And I’m not threatening. I’m telling you. We can still have a summer. But we have to tell people it’s safe to come here. Twenty minutes after they hear you won’t open the beaches, the people of this town will impeach you, or find a rail and run you out on it. Do you agree, gentlemen?”

“Fuckin’ A,” said Catsoulis. “I’ll give ’em the rail myself.”

“My people got no work,” said Lopez. “You don’t let them work, you’re not gonna work.”

Brody said flatly, “You can have my job anytime you want it.”

A buzzer sounded on Vaughan’s desk. He stood up angrily and crossed the room. He picked up the phone. “I told you we didn’t want to be disturbed!” he snapped. There was a moment’s silence, and he said to Brody, “There’s a call for you. Janet says it’s urgent. You can take it here or outside.”

“I’ll take it outside,” Brody said, wondering what could be urgent enough to call him out of a meeting with the selectmen. Another attack? He left the room and closed the door behind him. Janet handed him the phone on her desk, but before she could depress the flashing button to release it from “hold,” Brody said, “Tell me: Did Larry ever call Albert Morris and Fred Potter this morning?”

Janet looked away from him. “I was told not to say anything about anything to anybody.”

“Tell me, Janet. I need to know.”

“Will you put in a good word for me with Golden Boy in there?”

“It’s a deal.”

“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 hand-pick 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 fingertips. “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 any more.”

“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. “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, 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 Flicka moved slowly eastward. Brody watched the boat and said to himself: At least I know where he is today.

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 was a shark here,” said Brody. “But it isn’t here now. And with any luck, it won’t come back.”

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 without a ticket. Over.”

“I want to find out who the hell is selling those tickets, Leonard, and I want him stopped. Go to the phone booth in the parking lot and call headquarters and tell whoever answers that I want a man to go down to Main Street and arrest that bastard. If he comes from out of town, run him out of town. If he lives here, lock him up.”

“On what charge? Over.”

“I don’t care. Think of something. Fraud. Just get him off the streets.”

“Okay, Chief.”

“Any other problems?”

“No. There are some more of those TV guys here with one of those mobile units, but they’re not doing anything except interviewing people. Over.”

“About what?”

“Just the standard stuff. You know: Are you Scared to go swimming? What do you think about the shark? All that crap. Over.”

“How long have they been there?”

“Most of the morning. I don’t know how long they’ll hang around, especially since no one’s going in the water. Over.”

“As long as they’re not causing any trouble.”

“Nope. Over.”

“Okay. Hey, Leonard, you don’t have to say ‘over’ all the time. I can tell when you’re finished speaking.”

“Just procedure, Chief. Keeps things clear. Over and out.”

Brody waited a moment, then pushed the button again and said, “Hooper, this is Brody. Anything out there?” There was no answer. “This is Brody calling Hooper.

Can you hear me?” He was about to call a third time, when he heard Hooper’s voice.

“Sorry. I was out on the stern. I thought I saw some thing.”

“What did you see?”

“Nothing. I’m sure it was nothing. My eyes were playing tricks on me.”

“What did you think you saw?”

“I can’t really describe it. A shadow, maybe. Nothing more. The sunlight can fool you.”

“You haven’t seen anything else?”

“Not a thing. All morning.”

“Let’s keep it that way. I’ll check with you later.”

“Fine. I’ll be in front of the public beach in a minute or two.”

Brody put the walkie-talkie back in the bag and took out his sandwich. The bread was cold and stiff from resting against the ice-filled plastic bag that contained the cans of beer.

By 2.30, the beach was almost empty. People had gone off to play tennis, to sail, to have their hair done. The only ones left on the beach were half a dozen teenagers and the family from Queens.

Brody’s legs had begun to sunburn — faint red blotches were surfacing on his thighs and the tops of his feet — so he covered them with his towel. He took the walkie-talkie out of the bag and called Hendricks. “Anything happening, Leonard?”

“Not a thing, Chief. Over.”

“Anybody go swimming?”

“Nope. Wading, but that’s about it. Over.”

“Same here. What do you hear about the ticket seller?”

“Nothing, but nobody’s giving me tickets any more, so I guess somebody ran him off. Over.”

“What about the TV people?”

“They’re gone. They left a few minutes ago. They wanted to know where you were. Over.”

“What for?”

“Beats me. Over.”

“Did you tell them?”

“Sure. I didn’t see why not. Over.”

“Okay. I’ll talk to you later.” Brody decided to take a walk. He pushed a finger into one of the pink blotches on his thigh. It turned stark white, then flushed angry red when he removed his finger. He stood, wrapped his towel around his waist to keep the sun from his legs, and, carrying the walkie-talkie, strolled toward the water.

He heard the sound of a car engine, and he turned and walked to the top of the dune. A white panel truck was parked on Scotch Road. The black lettering on its side said, “WNBC-TV News.” The driver’s door opened, and a man got out and trudged through the sand toward Brody.

As the man drew closer, Brody thought he looked vaguely familiar. He was young, with long, curly hair and a handlebar moustache.

“Chief Brody?” he said when he was a few steps away.

“That’s right.”

“They told me you’d be here. I’m Bob Middleton, Channel Four News.”

“Are you the reporter?”

“Yeah. The crew’s in the truck.”

“I thought I’d seen you somewhere. What can I do for you?”

“I’d like to interview you.”

“About what?”

“The whole shark business. How you decided to open the beaches.”

Brody thought for a moment, then said to himself, What the hell: a little publicity couldn’t hurt the town, now that the chances of anything happening — today, at least — are pretty slim. “All right,” he said. “Where do you want to do it?”

“Down on the beach. I’ll get the crew. It’ll take a few minutes to set up, so if you have something to do, feel free. I’ll give a yell when we’re ready.” Middleton trotted away toward the truck.

Brody had nothing special to do, but since he had started to take a walk, he thought he might as well take it. He walked down toward the water.

As he passed the group of teenagers, he heard a boy say, “What about it? Anybody got the guts? Ten bucks is ten bucks.”

A girl said, “Come on, Limbo, lay off.”

Brody stopped about fifteen feet away, feigning interest in something offshore.

“What for?” said the boy. “It’s a pretty good offer. I don’t think anybody’s got the guts. Five minutes ago, you were all telling me there’s no way that shark’s still around here.”

Another boy said, “If you’re such hot shit, why don’t you go in?”

“I’m the one making the offer,” said the first boy. “Nobody’s gonna pay me ten bucks to go in the water. Well, what do you say?”

There was a moment’s silence, and then the other boy said, “Ten bucks? Cash?”

“It’s right here,” said the first boy, shaking a ten-dollar bill.

“How far out do I have to go?”

“Let’s see. A hundred yards. That’s a pretty good distance. Okay?”

“How do I know how far a hundred yards is?”

“Guess. Just keep swimming for a while and then stop. If it looks like you’re a hundred yards out, I’ll wave you back.”

“You’ve got a deal.” The boy stood up.

The girl said, “You’re crazy, Jimmy. Why do you want to go in the water? You don’t need ten dollars.”

“You think I’m scared?”

“Nobody said anything about being scared,” said the girl. “It’s unnecessary, is all.”

“Ten bucks is never unnecessary,” said the boy, “especially when your old man cuts off your allowance for blowing a little grass at your aunt’s wedding.”

The boy turned and began to jog toward the water. Brody said, “Hey!” and the boy stopped.

“What?”

Brody walked over to the boy. “What are you doing?”

“Going swimming. Who are you?”

Brody took out his wallet and showed the boy his badge. “Do you want to go swimming?” he said. He saw the boy look past him at his friends.

“Sure. Why not? It’s legal, isn’t it?”

Brody nodded. He didn’t know whether the others were out of earshot, so he lowered his voice and said, “Do you want me to order you not to?”

The boy looked at him, hesitated for a moment, then shook his head. “No, man. I can use the ten bucks.”

“Don’t stay in too long,” said Brody.

“I won’t.” The boy scampered into the water. He flung himself over a small wave and began to swim.

Brody heard footsteps running behind him. Bob Middleton dashed past him and called out to the boy, “Hey! Come back!” He waved his arms and called again.

The boy stopped swimming and stood up. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing. I want to get some shots of you going into the water. Okay?”

“Sure, I guess so,” said the boy. He began to wade back toward shore.

Middleton turned to Brody and said, “I’m glad I caught him before he got too far out. At least we’ll get somebody swimming out here today.”

Two men came up beside Brody. One was carrying a 16 mm. camera and a tripod. He wore combat boots, fatigue trousers, a khaki shirt, and a leather vest. The other man was shorter and older and fatter. He wore a rumpled gray suit and carried a rectangular box covered with dials and knobs. Around his neck was a pair of earphones.

“Right there’s okay, Walter,” said Middleton. “Let me know when you’re ready.” He took a notebook from his pocket and began to ask the boy some questions.

The elderly man walked down to Middleton and handed him a microphone. He backed up to the cameraman, feeding wire off a coil in his hand.

“Anytime,” said the cameraman.

“I gotta get a level on the kid,” said the man with the earphones.

“Say something,” Middleton told the boy, and he held the microphone a few inches from the boy’s mouth.

“What do you want me to say?”

“That’s good,” said the man with the earphones.

“Okay,” said Middleton. “We’ll start tight, Walter, then go to a two-shot, okay? Give me speed when you’re ready.”

The cameraman peered into the eyepiece, raised a finger, and pointed it at Middleton. “Speed,” he said.

Middleton looked at the camera and said, “We have been here on the Amity beach since early this morning, and as far as we know, no one has yet dared venture into the water. There has been no sign of the shark, but the threat still lingers. I’m standing here with Jim Prescott, a young man who has just decided to take a swim. Tell me, Jim, do you have any worries about what might be swimming out there with you?”

“No,” said the boy. “I don’t think there’s anything out there.”

“So you’re not scared.”

“No.”

“Are you a good swimmer?”

“Pretty good.”

Middleton held out his hand. “Well, good luck, Jim. Thanks for talking to us.”

The boy shook Middleton’s hand. “Yeah,” he said.

“What do you want me to do now?”

“Cut!” said Middleton. “We’ll take it from the top, Walter. Just a sec.” He turned to the boy. “Don’t ask that, Jim, okay? After I thank you, just turn around and head for the water.”

“Okay,” said the boy. He was shivering, and he rubbed his arms.

“Hey, Bob,” said the cameraman. “The kid ought to dry off. He can’t look wet if he isn’t supposed to have been in the water yet.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” said Middleton. “Can you dry off, Jim?”

“Sure.” The boy jogged up to his friends and dried himself with a towel.

A voice beside Brody said, “What’s goin’ on?” It was the man from Queens.

“Television,” said Brody. “They want to film somebody swimming.”

“Oh yeah? I should of brought my suit.”

The interview was repeated, and after Middleton had thanked the boy, the boy ran into the water and began to swim.

Middleton walked back to the cameraman and said, “Keep it going, Walter. Irv, you can kill the sound. We’ll probably use this for B-roll.”

“How much do you want of this?” said the cameraman, tracking the boy as he swam.

“A hundred feet or so,” said Middleton. “But let’s stay here till he comes out. Be ready, just in case.”

Brody had become so accustomed to the far-off, barely audible hum of the Flicka’s engine that his mind no longer registered it as a sound. It was as integral a part of the beach as the wave sound. Suddenly the engine’s pitch changed from a low murmur to an urgent growl. Brody looked beyond the swimming boy and saw the boat in a tight, fast turn — nothing like the slow, ambling sweeps Hooper made in his normal patrol. He put the walkie-talkie to his mouth and said, “You see something, Hooper?” Brody saw the boat slow, then stop.

Middleton heard Brody speak. “Give me sound, Irv,” he said. “Get this, Walter.” He walked to Brody and said, “Something going on, Chief?”

“I don’t know,” said Brody. “That’s what I’m trying to find out.” He said into the walkie-talkie, “Hooper?”

“Yes,” said Hooper’s voice, “but I still don’t know what it is. It was that shadow again. I can’t see it now. Maybe my eyes are getting tired.”

“You get that, Irv?” said Middleton. The sound man shook his head no.

“There’s a kid swimming out there,” said Brody.

“Where?” said Hooper.

Middleton shoved the microphone at Brody’s face, sliding it between his mouth and the mouthpiece of the walkie-talkie. Brody brushed it aside, but Middleton quickly jammed it back to within an inch of Brody’s mouth.

“Thirty, maybe forty yards out. I think I better tell him to come in.” Brody tucked the walkie-talkie into the towel at his waist, cupped his hands around his mouth, and called, “Hey out there! Come on in!”

“Jesus!” said the sound man. “You damn near blew my ears out.”

The boy did not hear the call. He was swimming straight away from the beach.

The boy who had offered the ten dollars heard Brody’s call, and he walked down to the water’s edge. “What’s the trouble now?” he said.

“Nothing,” said Brody. “I just think he’d better come in.”

“Who are you?”

Middleton stood between Brody and the boy, flipping the microphone back and forth between the two.

“I’m the police chief,” Brody said. “Now get your ass out of here!” He turned to Middleton. “And you keep that fucking microphone out of my face, will you?”

“Don’t worry, Irv,” said Middleton. “We can edit that out.”

Brody said into the walkie-talkie, “Hooper, he doesn’t hear me. You want to toot in here and tell him to come ashore?”

“Sure,” said Hooper. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

The fish had sounded now, and was meandering a few feet above the sandy bottom, eighty feet below the Flicka. For hours, its sensory system had been tracking the strange sound above. Twice the fish had risen to within a yard or two of the surface, allowing sight and smell and nerve canals to assess the creature passing noisily overhead. Twice it had sounded, compelled neither to attack nor move away.

Brody saw the boat, which had been facing westward, swing toward shore and kick up a shower of spray from the bouncing bow.

“Get the boat, Walter,” said Middleton.

Below, the fish sensed a change in the noise. It grew louder, then faded as the boat moved away. The fish turned, banking as smoothly as an airplane, and followed the receding sound.

The boy stopped swimming, raised his head, and looked toward shore, treading water. Brody waved his arms and yelled, “Come in!” The boy waved back and started for shore. He swam well, rolling his head to the left to catch a breath, kicking in rhythm with his arm strokes. Brody guessed he was sixty yards from shore and that it would take him a minute or more to reach the beach.

“What’s goin’ on?” said a voice next to Brody. It was the man from Queens. His two sons stood behind him, smiling eagerly.

“Nothing,” said Brody. “I just don’t want the boy to get out too far.”

“Is it the shark?” asked the father of the two boys.

“Hey, neat,” said the other boy.

“Never mind!” said Brody. “Just get back up the beach.”

“Come on, Chief,” said the man. “We drove all the way out here.”

“Beat it!” said Brody.

At fifteen knots, it took Hooper only thirty seconds to cover the couple of hundred yards and draw near the boy. He stopped a few yards away, letting the engine idle in neutral. He was just beyond the surf line, and he didn’t dare go closer for fear of being caught in the waves.

The boy heard the engine, and he raised his head. “What’s the matter?” he said.

“Nothing,” said Hooper. “Keep swimming.”

The boy lowered his head and swam. A swell caught him and moved him faster, and with two or three more strokes he was able to stand. The water was up to his shoulders, and he began to plod toward shore.

“Come on!” said Brody.

“I am,” said the boy. “What’s the problem, anyway?”

A few yards behind Brody, Middleton stood with the microphone in his hand. “What are you on, Walter?” he said.

“The kid,” said the cameraman, “and the cop. Both. A two-shot.”

“Okay. You running, Irv?”

The sound man nodded.

Middleton spoke into the microphone: “Something is going on, ladies and gentlemen, but we don’t know exactly what. All we know for sure is that Jim Prescott went swimming, and then suddenly a man on a boat out there saw something. Now Police Chief Brody is trying to get the boy to come ashore as fast as possible. It could be the shark, but we just don’t know.”

Hooper put the boat in reverse, to back away from the waves. As he looked off the stern, he saw a silver streak moving in the gray-blue water. It seemed part of the wave-motion, but it moved independently. For a second, Hooper did not realize what he was seeing. And even when the realization struck, he did not see the fish clearly. He cried, “Look out!”

“What is it?” yelled Brody.

“The fish! Get the kid out! Quick!”

The boy heard Hooper, and he tried to run. But in the chest-deep water his movements were slow and labored. A swell knocked him sideways. He stumbled, then stood and leaned forward.

Brody ran into the water and reached out. A wave hit him in the knees and pushed him back.

Middleton said into the microphone, “The man on the boat just said something about a fish. I don’t know if he means a shark.”

“Is it the shark?” said the man from Queens, standing next to Middleton. “I don’t see it.”

Middleton said, “Who are you?”

“Name’s Lester Kraslow. You want to interview me?”

“Go away.”

The boy was moving faster now, pushing through the water with his chest and arms. He did not see the fin rise behind him, a sharp blade of brownish gray that hovered in the water.

“There it is!” said Kraslow. “See it, Benny? Davey? It’s right there.”

“I don’t see nothin’,” said one of his sons.

“There it is, Walter!” said Middleton. “See it?”

“I’m zooming,” said the cameraman. “Yeah, I’ve got it.”

“Hurry!” said Brody. He reached for the boy. The boy’s eyes were wide and panicked. His nostrils flared, bubbling mucus and water. Brody’s hand touched the boy’s, and he pulled. He grabbed the boy around the chest, and together they staggered out of the water.

The fin dropped beneath the surface, and following the slope of the ocean floor, the fish moved into the deep.

Brody stood in the sand with his arm around the boy. “Are you okay?” he said.

“I want to go home.” The boy shivered.

“I bet you do.” Brody started to walk the boy to where his friends were standing, but Middleton intercepted them.

“Can you repeat that for me?” said Middleton.

“Repeat what?”

“Whatever you said to the boy. Can we do that again?”

“Get out of my way!” Brody snapped. He took the boy to his friends, and said to the one who had offered the money, “Take him home. And give him his ten dollars.” The boy nodded, pale and scared.

Brody saw his walkie-talkie wallowing in the wave-wash. He retrieved it, wiped it free of water, pushed the “talk” button, and said, “Leonard, can you hear me?”

“I read you, Chief. Over.”

“The fish has been here. If you’ve got anybody in the water down there, get them out. Right away. And stay there till we get relief for you. Nobody goes near the water. The beach is officially closed.”

“Okay, Chief. Was anybody hurt? Over.”

“No, thank God. But almost.”

“Okay, Chief. Over and out.”

As Brody walked back to where he had left his beach bag, Middleton called to him, “Hey, Chief, can we do that interview now?”

Brody stopped, tempted to tell Middleton to go fuck himself. Instead, he said, “What do you want to know? You saw it as well as I did.”

“Just a couple of questions.”

Brody sighed and returned to where Middleton stood with his camera crew. “All right,” he said, “go ahead.”

“How much have you got left on your roll, Walter?” said Middleton.

“About fifty feet. Make it brief.”

“Okay. Give me speed.”

“Speed.”

“Well, Chief Brody,” said Middleton, “that was a lucky break, wouldn’t you say?”

“It was very lucky. The boy might have died.”

“Would you say that’s the same shark that killed the people?”

“I don’t know,” said Brody. “I guess it must be.”

“So where do you go from here?”

“The beaches are closed. For the time being, that’s all I can do.”

“I guess you’d have to say that it isn’t yet safe to swim here in Amity.”

“I’d have to say that, that’s right.”

“What does that mean for Amity?”

“Trouble, Mr. Middleton. We are in big trouble.”

“In retrospect, Chief, how do you feel about having opened the beaches today?”

“How do I feel? What kind of question is that? Angry, annoyed, confused. Thankful that nobody got hurt. Is that enough?”

“That’s just fine, Chief,” Middleton said with a smile. “Thank you, Chief Brody.” He paused, then said, “Okay, Walter, that’ll wrap it. Let’s get home and start editing this mess.”

“What about a close?” said the cameraman. “I’ve got about twenty-five feet left.”

“Okay,” said Middleton. “Wait’ll I think of something profound to say.”

Brody gathered up his towel and his beach bag and walked over the dune toward his car. When he got to Scotch Road, he saw the family from Queens standing beside their camper.

“Was that the shark that killed the people?” asked the father.

“Who knows?” said Brody. “What’s the difference?”

“Didn’t look like much to me, just a fin. The boys was kind of disappointed.”

“Listen you jerk,” Brody said. “A boy almost got killed just now. Are you disappointed that didn’t happen?”

“Don’t give me that,” said the man. “That thing wasn’t even close to him. I bet the whole thing was a put-on for them TV guys.”

“Mister, get out of here. You and your whole goddam brood. Get ’em out of here. Now!”

Brody waited while the man loaded his family and their gear into the camper. As he walked away, he heard the man say to his wife, “I figured all the people would be snot-noses out here. I was right. Even the cops.”

At six o’clock, Brody sat in his office with Hooper and Meadows. He had already talked to Larry Vaughan, who called — drunk and in tears — and muttered wildly about the ruination of his life. The buzzer on Brody’s desk rang, and he picked up the phone.

“Fellow named Bill Whitman to see you, Chief,” said Bixby. “Says he’s from the New York Times.”

“Oh, for… Okay, what the hell. Send him in.”

The door opened, and Whitman stood in the doorway. He said, “Am I interrupting something?”

“Nothing much,” said Brody. “Come on in. You remember Harry Meadows. This is Matt Hooper, from Woods Hole.”

“I remember Harry Meadows, all right,” said Whitman. “It was thanks to him that I got my ass chewed from one end of Forty-third Street to the other by my boss.”

“Why was that?” said Brody.

“Mr. Meadows conveniently forgot to tell me about the attack on Christine Watkins. But he didn’t forget to tell his readers.”

“Must have slipped my mind,” said Meadows.

“What can we do for you?” said Brody.

“I was wondering,” said Whitman, “if you’re sure this is the same fish that killed the others.”

Brody gestured toward Hooper, who said, “I can’t be positive. I never saw the fish that killed the others, and I didn’t really get a look at the one today. All I saw was a flash, sort of silvery gray. I know what it was, but I couldn’t compare it to anything else. All I have to go on is probability, and in all probability it’s the same fish. It’s too far-fetched — for me, anyway — to believe that there are two big man-eating sharks off southern Long Island at the same time.”

Whitman said to Brody, “What are you going to do, Chief’? I mean, beyond closing the beaches, which I gather has already been done.”

“I don’t know. What can we do? Christ, I’d rather have a hurricane. Or even an earthquake. At least after they happen, they’re over and done with. You can look around and see what’s been done and what has to be done. They’re events, something you can handle. They have beginnings and ends. This is crazy. It’s as if there was a maniac running around loose, killing people whenever he felt like it. You know who he is, but you can’t catch him and you can’t stop him. And what makes it worse, you don’t know why he’s doing it.”

Meadows said, “Remember Minnie Eldridge.”

“Yeah,” said Brody. “I’m beginning to think she may have something, after all.”

“Who’s that?” said Whitman.

“Nobody. Just some nut.”

For a moment there was silence, an exhausted silence, as if everything that needed to be said had been said. Then Whitman said, “Well?”

“Well what?” said Brody.

“There must be someplace to go from here, something to do.”

“I’d be happy to hear any suggestions. Personally, I think we’re fucked. We’re going to be lucky if there’s a town left after this summer.”

“Isn’t that a bit of an exaggeration?”

“I don’t think so. Do you, Harry?”

“Not really,” said Meadows. “The town survives on its summer people, Mr. Whitman. Call it parasitic, if you will, but that’s the way it is. The host animal comes every summer, and Amity feeds on it furiously, pulling every bit of sustenance it can before the host leaves again after Labor Day. Take away the host animal, and we’re like dog ticks with no dog to feed on. We starve. At the least — the very least — next winter is going to be the worst in the history of this town. We’re going to have so many people on the dole that Amity will look like Harlem.” He chuckled. “Harlem-by-the-Sea.”

“What I’d give my ass to know,” said Brody, “is why us? Why Amity? Why not East Hampton or Southampton or Quogue?”

“That,” said Hooper, “is something we’ll never know.”

“Why?” said Whitman.

“I don’t want to sound like I’m making excuses for misjudging that fish,” said Hooper, “but the line between the natural and the preternatural is very cloudy. Natural things occur, and for most of them there’s a logical explanation. But for a whole lot of things there’s just no good or sensible answer. Say two people are swimming, one in front of the other, and a shark comes up from behind, passes right beside the guy in the rear, and attacks the guy in front. Why? Maybe they smelled different. Maybe the one in front was swimming in a more provocative way. Say the guy in back, the one who wasn’t attacked, goes to help the one who was attacked. The shark may not touch him — may actually avoid him — while he keeps banging away at the guy he did hit. White sharks are supposed to prefer colder water. So why does one turn up off the coast of Mexico, strangled by a human corpse that he couldn’t quite swallow? In a way, sharks are like tornadoes. They touch down here, but not there. They wipe out this house but suddenly veer away and miss the house next door. The guy in the house that’s wiped out says, ‘Why me?’ The guy in the house that’s missed says, ‘Thank God.’”

“All right,” said Whitman. “But what I still don’t get is why the shark can’t be caught.”

“Maybe it can be,” said Hooper. “But I don’t think by us. At least not with the equipment we have here. I suppose we could try chumming again.”

“Yeah,” said Brody. “Ben Gardner can tell us all about chumming.”

“Do you know anything about some fellow named Quint?” said Whitman.

“I’ve heard the name,” Brody said. “Did you ever look into the guy, Harry?”

“I read what little there was. As far as I know, he’s never done anything illegal.”

“Well,” said Brody, “maybe it’s worth a call.”

“You’re joking,” said Hooper. “You’d really do business with this guy?”

“I’ll tell you what, Hooper. At this point, if someone came in here and said he was Superman and he could piss that shark away from here, I’d say fine and dandy. I’d even hold his dick for him.”

“Yeah, but…”

Brody cut him off. “What do you say, Harry? You think he’s in the phone book?”

“You really are serious,” said Hooper.

“You bet your sweet ass. You got any better ideas?”

“No, it’s just… I don’t know. How do we know the guy isn’t a phony or a drunk or something?”

“We’ll never know till we try.” Brody took a phone book from the top drawer of his desk and opened it to the Qs. He ran his finger down the page. “Here it is. ‘Quint.’ That’s all it says. No first name. But it’s the only one on the page. Must be him.” He dialed the number.

“Quint,” said a voice.

“Mr. Quint, this is Martin Brody. I’m the chief of police over in Amity. We have a problem.”

“I’ve heard.”

“The shark was around again today.”

“Anybody get et?”

“No, but one boy almost did.”

“Fish that big needs a lot of food,” said Quint.

“Have you seen the fish?”

“Nope. Looked for him a couple times, but I couldn’t spend too much time looking. My people don’t spend their money for looking. They want action.”

“How did you know how big it is?”

“I hear tell. Sort of averaged out the estimates and took off about eight feet. That’s still a piece of fish you got there.”

“I know. What I’m wondering is whether you can help us.”

“I know. I thought you might call.”

“Can you?”

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“On how much you’re willing to spend, for one thing.”

“We’ll pay whatever the going rate is. Whatever you charge by the day. We’ll pay you by the day until we kill the thing.”

“I don’t think so,” said Quint. “I think this is a premium job.”

“What does that mean?”

“My everyday rate’s two hundred a day. But this is special. I think you’ll pay double.”

“Not a chance.”

“Good-by.”

“Wait a minute! Come on, man. Why are you holding me up?”

“You got no place else to go.”

“There are other fishermen.”

Brody heard Quint laugh — a short, derisive bark. “Sure there are,” said Quint. “You already sent one. Send another one. Send half a dozen more. Then when you come back to me again, maybe you’ll even pay triple. I got nothing to lose by waiting.”

“I’m not asking for any favors,” Brody said. “I know you’ve got a living to make. But this fish is killing people. I want to stop it. I want to save lives. I want your help. Can’t you at least treat me the way you treat regular clients?”

“You’re breaking my heart,” said Quint. “You got a fish needs killing, I’ll try to kill it for you. No guarantees, but I’ll do my best. And my best is worth four hundred dollars a day.”

Brody sighed. “I don’t know that the selectmen will give me the money.”

“You’ll find it somewhere.”

“How long do you think it’ll take to catch the fish?”

“A day, a week, a month. Who knows? We may never find him. He may go away.”

“Don’t I wish,” said Brody. He paused. “Okay,” he said finally. “I guess we don’t have any choice.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Can you start tomorrow?”

“Nope. Monday’s the earliest. I got a party tomorrow.”

“A party? What do you mean, a dinner party?”

Quint laughed again, the same piercing bark. “A charter party,” he said. “You don’t do much fishing.”

Brody blushed. “No, that’s right. Can’t you cancel them? If we’re paying all that money, it seems to me we deserve a little special service.”

“Nope. They’re regular customers. I couldn’t do that to them or I’d lose their business. You’re just a one-shot deal.”

“Suppose you run into the big fish tomorrow. Will you try to catch him?”

“That would save you a lot of money, wouldn’t it? We won’t see your fish. We’re going due east. Terrific fishing due east. You oughta try it sometime.”

“You had it all figured out, right?”

“There’s one more thing,” said Quint. “I’m gonna need a man with me. I lost my mate, and I wouldn’t feel comfortable taking on that big a fish without an extra pair of hands.”

“Lost your mate? What, overboard?”

“No, he quit. He got nerves. Happens to most people after a while in this work. They get to thinking too much.”

“But it doesn’t happen to you.”

“No. I know I’m smarter’n the fish.”

“And that’s enough, just being smarter?”

“Has been so far. I’m still alive. What about it? You got a man for me?”

“You can’t find another mate?”

“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 out-rank him in knowledge, if not authority. He could send Hooper alone and stay ashore 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 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-assed 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 AM, 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 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. Vaughan.”

“Mrs. Vaughan!” As far as Brody could remember, he had never in his life talked to Eleanor Vaughan 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 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.”