“Did he say about the cold water?”
“That it’s quite common for a great white to come into water this cold. Some years ago, a boy was killed by one near San Francisco. The water temperature was fifty-seven.”
Brody sucked a long drag from his cigarette and said, “You’ve really done a lot of checking into this, Harry.”
“It seemed to me a matter of — shall we say — common sense and public interest to determine exactly what happened and the chances of it happening again.”
“And did you determine those chances?”
“I did. They’re almost nonexistent. From what I can gather, this was a real freak accident. According to Hooper, the only thing good about great whites is that they’re scarce. There’s every reason to believe that the shark that attacked the Watkins girl is long gone. There are no reefs around here. There’s no fish-processing plant or slaughterhouse that dumps blood or guts into the water. So there’s nothing at all to keep the shark interested.” Meadows paused and looked at Brody, who returned his gaze silently. “So it seems to me, Martin, that there’s no reason to get the public all upset over something that’s almost sure not to happen again.”
“That’s one way to look at it, Harry. Another is that since it’s not likely to happen again, there’s no harm in telling people that it did happen this once.”
Meadows sighed. “Journalistically, you may be right. But I think this is one of those times, Martin, when we have to forget the book and think of what’s best for the people. I don’t think it would be in the public interest to spread this around. I’m not thinking about the townspeople. They’ll know about it soon enough, the ones that don’t know already. But what about the people who read the Leader in New York or Philadelphia or Cleveland?”
“You flatter yourself.”
“Balls. You know what I mean. And you know what the real estate situation is like around here this summer. We’re right on the edge, and other places are, too, like Nantucket and the Vineyard and East Hampton. There are people who still haven’t made their summer plans. They know they’ve got their pick of places this year. There’s no shortage of houses for rent… anywhere. If I run a story saying that a young woman was bitten in two by a monster shark off Amity, there won’t be another house rented in this town. Sharks are like ax-murderers, Martin. People react to them with their guts. There’s something crazy and evil and uncontrollable about them. If we tell people there’s a killer shark around here, we can kiss the summer good-by.”
Brody nodded. “I can’t argue with that, Harry, and I don’t want to tell the people that there is a killer shark around here. Look at it from my point of view, just for a second. I won’t dispute your odds or anything. You’re probably right. That shark has probably gone a hundred miles from here and won’t ever show up again. The most dangerous thing out there in the water is probably the undertow. But, Harry, there’s a chance you’re wrong, and I don’t think we can take that chance. Suppose — just suppose — we don’t say a word, and somebody else gets hit by that fish. What then? My ass is in a sling. I’m supposed to protect people around here, and if I can’t protect them from something, the least I can do is warn them that there is a danger. Your ass is in a sling, too. You’re supposed to report the news, and there’s just no question but that someone killed by a shark is news. I want you to run the story, Harry. I want to close the beaches, just for a couple of days, and just for insurance sake. It won’t be a great inconvenience to anybody. There aren’t that many people here yet, and the water’s cold. If we tell it straight, tell people what happened and why we’re doing what we’re doing, I think we’ll be way ahead.”
Meadows sat back in his chair and thought for a moment. “I can’t speak for your job, Martin, but as far as mine is concerned, the decision has already been made.”
“What does that mean?”
“There won’t be any story about the attack in the Leader.”
“Just like that.”
“Well, not exactly. It wasn’t entirely my decision, though I think that generally I agree with it. I’m the editor of this paper, Martin, and I own a piece of it, but not a big enough piece to buck certain pressures.”
“Such as?”
“I’ve gotten six phone calls already this morning. Five were from advertisers — one restaurant, one hotel, two real estate firms, and an ice cream shop. They were most anxious to know whether or not I planned to run a story on the Watkins thing, and most anxious to let me know they felt Amity would best be served by letting the whole thing fade quietly away. The sixth call was from Mr. Coleman in New York. Mr. Coleman who owns fifty-five per cent of the Leader. It seems Mr. Coleman had received a few phone calls himself. He told me there would be no story in the Leader.”
“I don’t suppose he said whether the fact that his wife is a real estate broker had anything to do with his decision.”
“No,” said Meadows. “The subject never came up.”
“Figures. Well, Harry, where does that leave us? You’re not going to run a story, so as far as the good readers of the Leader are concerned, nothing ever happened. I’m going to close the beaches and put up a few signs saying why.”
“Okay, Martin. That’s your decision. But let me remind you of something. You’re an elected official, right?”
“Just like the President. For four thrill-filled years.”
“Elected officials can be impeached.”
“Is that a threat, Harry?”
Meadows smiled. “You know better than that. Besides, who am I to be making threats? I just want you to be aware of what you’re doing before you tinker with the lifeblood of all those sage and discriminating souls who elected you.”
Brody rose to go. “Thanks, Harry. I’ve always heard it’s lonely here at the top. What do I owe you for lunch?”
“Forget it. I couldn’t take money from a man whose family will soon be begging for food stamps.”
Brody laughed. “No way. Haven’t you heard? The great thing about police work is the security.”
Ten minutes after Brody returned to his office, the intercom buzzer sounded and a voice announced, “The mayor’s here to see you, Chief.”
Brody smiled. The mayor. Not Larry Vaughan, just calling to check in. Not Lawrence Vaughan of Vaughan & Penrose Real Estate, stopping by to complain about some noisy tenants. But Mayor Lawrence P. Vaughan, the people’s choice — by seventy-one votes in the last election. “Send his honor in,” Brody said.
Larry Vaughan was a handsome man, in his early fifties, with a full head of salt-and-pepper hair and a body kept trim by exercise. Though he was a native of Amity, over the years he had developed an air of understated chic. He had made a great deal of money in postwar real estate speculation in Amity, and he was the senior partner (some thought the only partner, since no one had ever met or spoken to anyone named Penrose in Vaughan’s office) in the most successful agency in town. He dressed with elegant simplicity, in timeless British jackets, button-down shirts, and Weejun loafers. Unlike Ellen Brody, who had descended from summer folk to winter folk and was unable to make the adjustment, Vaughan had ascended smoothly from winter folk to summer folk, adjusting each step of the way with grace. He was not one of them, for he was technically a local merchant, so he was never asked to visit them in New York or Palm Beach. But in Amity he moved freely among all but the most aloof members of the summer community, which, of course, did an immense amount of good for his business. He was asked to most of the important summer parties, and he always arrived alone. Very few of his friends knew that he had a wife at home, a simple, adoring woman who spent much of her time doing needlepoint in front of her television set.