Peter Benchley - Jaws

She heard the door open downstairs. She jumped off the bed, ran into the hall and down the stairs. She wrapped her arms around Brody’s neck and kissed him hard on the mouth.

“My God,” he said when she let him go. “That’s quite a welcome.”

“You’re not putting that thing on my boat,” said Quint.

They stood on the dock in the brightening light. The sun had cleared the horizon, but it lay behind a low bank of clouds that touched the eastern sea. A gentle wind blew from the south. The boat was ready to go. Barrels lined the bow; rods stood straight in their holders, leaders snapped into eyelets on the reels. The engine chugged quietly, sputtering bubbles as tiny waves washed against the exhaust pipe, coughing diesel fumes that rose and were carried away by the breeze.

At the end of the dock a man got into a pickup truck and started the engine, and the truck began to move slowly off down the dirt road. The words stenciled on the door of the truck read: Woods Hole Oceanographic Institute.

Quint stood with his back to the boat, facing Brody and Hooper, who stood on each side of an aluminum cage. The cage was slightly over six feet tall and six feet wide and four feet deep. Inside, there was a control panel: atop were two cylindrical tanks. On the floor of the cage were a scuba tank, a regulator, a face mask, and a wet suit.

“Why not?” said Hooper. “It doesn’t weigh much, and I can lash it down out of the way.”

“Take up too much room.”

“That’s what I said,” said Brody. “But he wouldn’t listen.”

“What the hell is it anyway?” said Quint.

“It’s a shark cage,” said Hooper. “Divers use them to protect themselves when they’re swimming in the open ocean. I had it sent down from Woods Hole — in that truck that just left.”

“And what do you plan to do with it?”

“When we find the fish, or when the fish finds us, I want to go down in the cage and take some pictures. No one’s ever been able to photograph a fish this big before.”

“Not a chance,” said Quint. “Not on my boat.”

“Why not?”

“It’s foolishness, that’s why. A sensible man knows his limits. That’s beyond your limits.”

“How do you know?”

“It’s beyond any man’s limits. A fish that big could eat that cage for breakfast.”

“But would he? I don’t think so. I think he might bump it, might even mouth it, but I don’t think he’d seriously try to eat it.”

“He would if he saw something as juicy as you inside.”

“I doubt it.”

“Well, forget it.”

“Look, Quint, this is a chance of a lifetime. Not just for me. I wouldn’t have thought of doing it until I saw the fish yesterday. It’s unique, at least in this hemisphere. And even though people have filmed great whites before, no one’s ever filmed a twenty-foot white swimming in the open ocean. Never.”

“He said forget it,” said Brody. “So forget it. Besides, I don’t want the responsibility. We’re out here to kill that fish, not make a home movie about it.”

“What responsibility? You’re not responsible for me.”

“Oh yes I am. The town of Amity is paying for this trip, so what I say goes.”

Hooper said to Quint, “I’ll pay you.”

Quint smiled. “Oh yeah? How much?”

“Forget it,” said Brody. “I don’t care what Quint says. I say you’re not bringing that thing along.”

Hooper ignored him and said to Quint, “A hundred dollars. Cash. In advance, the way you like it.” He reached into his back pocket for his wallet.

“I said no!” said Brody.

“What do you say, Quint? A hundred bucks. Cash. Here it is.” He counted five twenties and held them out to Quint.

“I don’t know.” Then Quint reached for the money and said, “Shit, I don’t suppose it’s my business to keep a man from killing himself if he wants to.”

“You put that cage on the boat,” Brody said to Quint, “and you don’t get your four hundred.” If Hooper wants to kill himself, Brody thought, let him do it on his own time.

“And if the cage doesn’t go,” said Hooper, “I don’t go.”

“Fuck yourself,” said Brody. “You can stay here, for all I care.”

“I don’t think Quint would like that. Right, Quint? You want to go out and take on that fish with just you and the chief? You feel good about that?”

“We’ll find another man,” said Brody.

“Go ahead,” Hooper snapped. “Good luck.”

“Can’t do it,” said Quint. “Not on this short notice.”

“Then the hell with it!” said Brody. “We’ll go tomorrow. Hooper can go back to Woods Hole and play with his fish.”

Hooper was angry — angrier, in fact, than he knew, for before he could stop himself, he had said, “That’s not all I might… Oh, forget it.”

For several seconds, a leaden silence fell over the three men. Brody stared at Hooper, unwilling to believe what he had heard, uncertain how much substance there was in the remark and how much empty threat. Then suddenly he was overcome by rage. He reached Hooper in two steps, grabbed both sides of his collar, and rammed his fists into Hooper’s throat. “What was that?” he said. “What did you say?”

Hooper could hardly breathe. He clawed at Brody’s fingers. “Nothing!” he said, choking. “Nothing!” He tried to back away, but Brody gripped him tighter.

“What did you mean by that?”

“Nothing, I tell you! I was angry. It was something to say.”

“Where were you last Wednesday afternoon?”

“Nowhere!” Hooper’s temples were throbbing. “Let me go! You’re choking me!”

“Where were you?” Brody twisted his fists tighter.

“In a motel! Now let me go!”

Brody eased his grip. “With who?” he said, praying to himself, God, don’t let it be Ellen; let his alibi be a good one.

“Daisy Wicker.”

“Liar!” Brody tightened his grip again, and he felt tears begin to squeeze from his eyes.

“What do you mean?” said Hooper, struggling to free himself.

“Daisy Wicker’s a goddam lesbian! What were you doing, knitting?”

Hooper’s thoughts were fogging. Brody’s knuckles were cutting off the flow of blood to his brain. His eyelids flickered and he began to lose consciousness. Brody released him and pushed him down to the dock, where he sat, sucking air.

“What do you say to that?” said Brody. “Are you such a hotshot you can fuck a lesbian?”

Hooper’s mind cleared quickly, and he said, “No. I didn’t find it out until… until it was too late.”

“What do you mean? You mean she went with you to a motel and then turned you down? No dyke is gonna go to any motel room with you.”

“She did!” said Hooper, desperately trying to keep pace with Brody’s questions.

“She said she wanted… that it was time she tried it straight. But then she couldn’t go through with it. It was awful.”

“You’re bullshitting me!”

“I’m not! You can check with her yourself.” Hooper knew it was a weak excuse. Brody could check it out with no trouble. But it was all he could think of. He could stop on the way home that evening and call Daisy Wicker from a phone booth, beg her to corroborate his story. Or he could simply never return to Amity — turn north and take the ferry from Orient Point and be out of the state before Brody could reach Daisy Wicker.

“I will check,” said Brody. “You can count on it.”

Behind him, Brody heard Quint laugh and say, “That’s the funniest thing I ever did hear. Tried to lay a lesbian.”

Brody tried to read Hooper’s face, searching for anything that might betray a lie. But Hooper kept his eyes fixed on the dock.