Peter Benchley - Jaws

“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.”