>> I/ Jaws I

I/ Jaws I

: I/ Jaws I.

I/ Jaws I


Sounds of the innerspaces rushing forward.

Then a splinter of blue light in the center of the picture. It breaks wide, showing the top and bottom a silhouetted curtain of razor sharp teeth suggesting that we are inside of a tremendous gullet, looking out at the onrushing under- sea world at night. HEAR a symphony of underwater sounds: landslide, metabolic sounds, the rare and secret noises that certain undersea species share with each other.



Caught in its blinding flash, the light moves on, fingering the fog. A lone buoy dongs somewhere out at sea.


The quaint little resort town is quiet in the middle of the night. A ground fog rounds a corner and begins spreading toward us. It fills over sidewalks and streets like some Biblical plague.


It is a pleasant, moonlit, windless night in mid-June. We see a long straight stretch of white beach. Behind the low dunes are the dark shapes of large expensive houses. The fog that has reached Amity proper is seen only as a low-hanging cloud that is pushing in from the sea. HEAR a number of voices sing- ing. It sounds like an Eastern University's Alma Mater.


A bonfire is blazing. Gathered around it are about a dozen young men and women who are merrily trading fight songs from their respective universities. Two young people break away from the circle, Chrissie almost pulling a drunk and disorderly Tom Cassidy behind her.


makes a clumsy try at kissing Christina but she laughs and ducks away.


The fire, now one hundred yards in the b.g., silhouettes Chrissie running up a steep dune. Once there, she pauses to look at the ocean that we can only hear. Cassidy plods up the dune behind her, grossly out of shape.

Chrissie runs down a few steps, leaving Tom Cassidy reeling on the summit. Chrissie's dress, bra and panties fly toward Tom, who can't make a fist to catch them. The dress drapes over one half of his head. Soggily aroused, Cassidy struggles to get his shoe off.

But Chrissie is already in full flight toward the shore. In she goes, a delicate splash, surfacing in a cold ocean that is unusually placid. Chrissie pulls with her arms, drawing herself into deeper water.

That's when we see it. A gentle bulge in the water, a ripple that passes her a dozen feet away. A wave of pressure lifts her up and eases her down again. Her face shows the beginning of fear. Maybe it's Tom. She smiles and looks around for him, then her eyes go to the beach where Tom -- too drunk to stand -- one pantleg off, is struggling with his other shoe. Chrissie turns and starts for shore.


Her expression freezes. The water-lump is racing for her. It bolts her upright, out of the water to her hips, then slams her hard, whipping her in an upward arc of eight feet before she is jerked down to her open mouth. Another jolt to her floating hair. One hand claws the air, fingers trying to breathe, then it, too, is sucked below in a final and terrible jerking motion. HOLD on the churning froth of a baby whirl- pool until we are sure it is over.


in his undershorts, laughing, turning in slow stoned circles, a prisoner in his orange windbreaker that seems to have him in a full Nelson. He stumbles to his knees.



giving weather bulletin: marina weather, westerly winds, light chop, etc.

A pair of bumps under the bedsheets. There is a rustling and two stockinged feet swing up and settle heavily on the floor. Follow them as the pad along from hardwood floor to bathroom tile. A light pops on and the feet arrive at a scale, board it.


In a blur it goes to 191. Then, as if by magic, the numbers float backward to 160.


Martin Brody at forty-two, stands rigid, lifting himself from the sink counter-top with both hands. Satisfied, he turns toward the mirror, squinting in the light, measuring himself up and down. Advancing waistline, receding hairline. Gray around the ears. Martin Brody makes another silent promise to get his act together -- tomorrow.

He reaches for the sliding mirror and opens the medicine cabinet. There is a travel brochure of Arizona attached to the shelf. Brody shakes his head and removes it. He closes the mirror which now reflects his wife, Ellen Brody, pert and poised off to one side.

ELLEN Martin. Aren't you tired of Maine lobster, Long Island duckling and Ispwitch clams. Just once couldn't go for a Big Mac at the bottom of the Grand Canyon this summer?

BRODY Look at me, I'm not even awake.

ELLEN You've had no time off in two years, Martin.

BRODY Living here is time off.

Brody opens the shower door to turn on the water. Ellen has scotch-taped a travel folder for exotic Mazatlan, Mexico on the shower head.


Martin is getting dressed after his shower. Ellen stands by the curtained window.

BRODY Larry Vaughn says we'll pull a record season. Ellen, we're collecting high enough rentals to cover the mortgage payments for all three of our beach- front investments.

ELLEN I know where we can invest in an Indian Chief Motor-home for the whole of August, drop it off in Aspen, Colorado and jet back to Boston by Labor Day.

Ellen pulls from behind her back three brochures of trailer home rentals.

BRODY Uh...look, Ellie. Let's just ---

ELLEN (completes the sentence) -- play it by ear.

Ellen turns to open the curtains. Sunlight and ocean sparkle pour in. A glorious view.

ELLEN (false happiness) Another shitty day in Paradise.

The sunlight catches Brody's Police Chief badge as he slips on his shirt, and we discover why he can't go anywhere.


Brody, ripping open a twenty-five pound bag of Kennel Ration as five hungry mutts somersault around his feet. The tele- phone rings, and Brody one-hands it as he attempts to sow all five doggy bowls with missed double-helpings.

BRODY Mornin' Hendricks. What's what?

He listens, sours, and takes a breath.

BRODY First goddamn weekend of the summer... great start! (beat) No...take him back to the beach. Maybe she washed in.


Martin Brody's Country Squire police wagon rushes past, taking the view to an enormous billboard depicting a typical summer day in Amity. A beautiful model splashes in the golden surf, languishing in a Solarcaine sun. AMITY WELCOMES YOU is written above her flailing arms.


Three small figures in the landscape, walking the beach. The surf is rough and there is sea-floor debris strewn about from the receding tide.


Deputy Hendricks is searching the shore about one hundred yards down wind. Meanwhile, Brody, in his casual police attire, and Tom Cassidy, still in the clothing we saw him in last night, poke around the smoking ashes of the bon- fire. Brody fingers the missing girl's shoes, purse and clothes. In the daylight, Cassidy looks like a junior in High School and misconducts himself, wavering between inflated maturity and tear-blown adolescence.

BRODY Christine what?

CASSIDY Worthingsly...Worthington -- no one ever died on me before.

BRODY You picked her up on the ferry.

CASSIDY I didn't know her.

BRODY And nobody else saw her in the water?

CASSIDY Somebody could've -- because I was sort of passed out.

BRODY Sounds to me like maybe she ran out on you.

CASSIDY Oh, no, sir. I've never had a woman do that. I'm sure she drowned.

A shrill whistle makes them turn. Hendricks is fifty yards away, on his knees. He blows again, a feeble report this time.

BRODY We may know in a minute.

Brody runs toward Hendricks, Cassidy hesitates, then follows with:

CASSIDY (pathetically) You can't make me look -- !


A skein of seaweed garnishes the base of this isolated dune. The booming waves and fizzing surf make dialogue inaudible.

Deputy Hendricks on hands and knees, looking white as a sheet. Brody tells Cassidy to wait at the foot of the dune, and ventures up. Hendricks stops him with a wave-off, saying something at the same time. Brody nods understanding and steps up cautiously. And looks down.

Whatever he sees has a marked effect on his entire physique. Kicking out with his foot, Brody sends dozens of angry horseshoe crabs in an escape frenzy and they boil over the top of the dune and down its slopes.

Cassidy takes a few uneasy steps backwards when Brody waves him over. He shakes his head. An awkward moment. Then Cassidy shuffles forward and up the few remaining feet, his eyes looking everywhere but down. Brody says something else and Cassidy shakes his head again, eyes out at sea. Brody puts his hand gently around the quaking man's shoulder. Nodding, he starts to look down, an inch at a time. He looks.

The jolt that assaults Cassidy is not unexpected. He falls backward in a sitting position as though shot. Nods yes -- it's her. Brody turns and slides off the dune, stumbling close. Hear his BREATHING. He looks around, envisioning the week ahead of him....


Brody walks through the door and enters his office, holding a fizzing glass of Alka-Seltzer. Polly, his sixty-one year old secretary follows close on his heels with her shorthand pad of messages and reminders.

In the outer office, Hendricks and Cassidy slump into chairs, sipping from fizzing dixie cups.

Brody sits behind the typewriter, only to find that somebody has placed a travel folder to sunny Scottsdale, Arizona between the rolls of his Smith-Corona. He sighs and replaces the colorful brochure with the grim accident report. As he types, Polly reads his calendar to him, undaunted by Brody's heavy malaise.

POLLY This is in no order of importance, Chief: There's a meeting on the Amity Town Council on Aging this Monday night, Bentoncourt Hall. The Fire Inspector wants you to go over the fireworks site with him before he catches the one o'clock ferry. Mainly, you have a batch of calls about that new Karate school.


Brody has just typed the girl's name. He skips the space for Cause-of-Death, and just under it types the Next-of-Kin in- formation he has collected from her wallet.

POLLY Searle's Rent-a-Bike, the Rainy Ale, Tisberry's Hardware...they say it's those nine-year-olds from the school practicing karate on all those nice picket fences.

The phone rings and Polly picks it up.

POLLY It's the Coroner. Somebody pass away in the night?

Brody nestles the phone between ear and collar, listening, as he turns to the typewriter.

BRODY Jesus, Santos.


Cause-of-Death line rolls into place. The hammers punch out: SHARK ATTACK.


leans forward, staring at what he just wrote. Polly cocks her head and removes the phone from his ear.

POLLY What's the matter?

Brody takes a breath. A new resolve comes over him.

BRODY Polly, I want to know what water recreation the Island fathers have on for today.

POLLY Right this minute?

Brody gets up and moves hastily toward the door.


Cassidy and Hendricks look up as Brody enters.

BRODY (To Hendricks) Where'd you hide the 'Beach Closed' signs?

HENDRICKS We never had any. What's the problem?

A local merchant comes through the door.

LOCAL MERCHANT Glad I caught you. There's a city truck with New Hampshire plates parked right in front of my....

Brody pushes past him and out the door.


In the busy center of a town preparing for the big Fourth of July weekend, Brody wends his way around sidewalk activ- ity, purpose and haste in each stride. As he turns a corner a little man in a white smock emerges from the Funeral Parlor. This is Carl Santos, Amity's part-time coroner. Santos looks both ways before crossing Colonial Drive.

Brody passes Keisel's Bicycle Rental, navigating an awkward course through an odd assortment of Schwinns that line the sidewalk in front of a demolished white picket fence. Keisel intercepts Brody on the run.

KEISEL Eight to ten years old. Average size about five-four, otherwise the overhand chops would be higher up on the fences. And I have a pretty damn good idea who two of the little bastards are.

BRODY (out-walking him) Call me later in the afternoon, Harry.


Santos emerges with Ben Meadows, the stylish, late-thirties editor of the Amity Gazette. Together they cut a beeline for the other side of the street.


Past taverns and chowder shacks, past bleacher construction and July Fourth posters, Brody enters Lynwood's Hardware and Sporting Goods...so overstocked that beach umbrellas, alumi- num deck chairs, and rainbow beach towels splash a surplus of color from the display window to the sidewalk.


The store proprietor is busy at work on an inventory list with a mainland delivery man.

LYNWOOD Stuff's no good to me in August when the Pilgrims come in June... (to Brody) Go on and help yourself to what- ever you need, Chief. Can you work the register?


Brody emerges with enough poster-board, wooden stakes, nails, paint, and brushes to close every beach on the island. He starts back the way he came when Hendricks shoots up the street in the patrol jeep. He stops fast enough to call attention, leans out the window.

HENDRICKS (he has fully read the report) I sent Sammy out ahead of me to the South Chop beach until I can make up the signs.

BRODY Let Polly do the printing.

HENDRICKS There's a Scout troop in Avril Bay doing the mile swim for their Merit Badges. I couldn't call them in, there's no phones out there.

BRODY Oh, brother! Gimme the keys, Lenny.

Brody leaps behind the wheel as Hendricks steps out.


A secretary is removing four 8 x 10 glossies of beachfront houses from the display window, revealing Larry Vaughn, the Mayor of Amity, exchanging anxieties with Ben Meadows and Coroner Santos and two other city Selectmen. They come out in a group, reach the sunlight, and squint down the street as Brody careens around the corner and out of sight. Deputy Hendricks, laden with his arts and crafts, passes them on the street front.

VAUGHN What have you got there, Lenny?

HENDRICKS We had a shark attack at South Chop this morning, Mayor. Fatal. Gotta batten down the beach.

Vaughn and group exchange horrified looks, but we get the impression it is not in response to the shark-attack news.

VAUGHN Who've you told this to, Lenny?

HENDRICKS I just found out about it -- but there's a bunch of Boy Scouts in the water a coupla miles down the coast from where we found the girl. Avril Bay, thereabouts. Chief went to dry them off.

VAUGHN (to Meadows) Take my car, okay? (to Hendricks) You come with us, Lenny.

HENDRICKS I've got all these signs here....

VAUGHN C'mon, it'll give us time to think about what they're going to say.

They all crowd into a Cadillac El Dorado with Vaughn Realty signs on the doors.


A flotilla of twenty exhausted Boy Scouts round a lifebuoy that marks the quarter-mile. A rowboat with Scoutmaster and bullhorn keeps pace.


Two older Seascouts time the event with stop watches, and a couple of dozen parents look on, shading their eyes. Brody's jeep pulls up in the background and stops. He gets out and starts down to the breakwater when the Mayor's Cadillac pulls up and skids to a stop.

Brody pauses momentarily as Mayor Vaughn emerges, trying to affect an easygoing appearance. Reaching Brody, he slips an arm around his shoulder, trying to slow him as Brody leads the gang toward the breakwater and the slogging Scouts.

VAUGHN Where are you going to get the authority to close the beaches?

Brody stops. He sees pitiful Hendricks standing by the car with the signboard material. Brody begins to slow burn.

BRODY Are you asking me as the Mayor, or as a Real Estate broker, or our of friendly interest, or what, Larry?

VAUGHN I just want you aware of what you're doing before you tinker with the life blood of all those sage and discriminating souls who elected you. Next week's the goddam Fourth of July! We've got a couple thousand summer people coming over here who will gladly use the Cape Cod beaches if they can't use ours.

BRODY So what you're suggesting is we lay out a smorgasbord for the shark. All you can eat for the price of a weekend on Amity Island.

VAUGHN We're not even sure it was a shark.

BRODY What else could do that?!

VAUGHN (to Coroner Santos) Boat propeller?

SANTOS Possibly. Yes....

VAUGHN Swims way out...night...fishing boat comes along ---

BRODY (looking at both of them) What is this?

MEADOWS We've never had shark trouble here, Martin. They don't come in close. No reefs, or fish-processing plants, slaughter houses. Nothing to keep it interested.

BRODY You print whatever you want.

VAUGHN Martin, sharks are like ax-murderers. People react to them with their guts.

Brody looks toward the open water. The Boy Scouts have made a turn and are passing the lifebuoy marking the three-quarter mile point.

MEADOWS Whatever was out there is miles out to sea by now. Sharks don't have swim bladders like most fish -- they have to keep moving or drown. Don't you know anything about them?

BRODY I...don't go around the water much.

VAUGHN It's one chance in a million this'll happen again. (points) Look at that...safe and sound.

The Boy Scouts are emerging exhausted; some flop down on their backs, happy it is over. Brody considers this.

VAUGHN Had you yelled 'shark,' those Cub Scouts would have broken the free- style record for the hundred-meter, then busted our backs with word of mouth.

BRODY If that's the test case for your million-to-one shot, I'm glad I lost.

Vaughn feels secure that Brody will not act in haste. He puts a hand on his shoulder, turns and walks him toward the cars.

VAUGHN Listen, Chief -- the funniest thing -- you know the white picket fence around my realty office....


Rising like Neptune from out of the deep, Quint walks the sidewalk in the pool of his own shadow. He is a sleek and sinewy specimen, inches over six feet, and with a face making it hard to determine where the scars leave off and the wrinkles begin, though he is no older than fifty.

Quint seems to be heading for the local tavern when a crunch of seafaring fishermen pour out, forming an impenetrable knot around the sidewalk in front of him. One of them sees Quint, who approaches with no intention of slowing down. The seven fishermen never give it a second thought, they part like the Red Sea, clearing a beeline trail to the bar doors. Quint bursts through their obliging ranks and turns into the Music store. The tiny bell jingles daintily. Two of the Portu- guese fishermen spit three times, taking no chances.


Quint brushes against the counter. The shopkeeper is helping a ten year old boy fix a new reed to his clarinet. The little boy produces a mellow low tone, then wonderingly rides the scale. With little or no effort, Quint's gnarled hand floats up and drops like a sledge on the service bell. The shop- keeper's eyes pop up, the kid hits a bad note and squeaks.

QUINT (forced politeness) Four spools number twelve piano wire.

SHOPKEEPER Catch any monsters lately, Mr. Quint?

Quint's eyes never leave the little boy. He is drilling him with a sidelong whammy. The boy feels Quint nailing him and a ragged assortment of squeaks, blurps and missed notes over- ride the sounds of the shopkeeper unspooling the piano wire.


A riffly blur, color alternating with black and white. The dizziness stops on a book page showing a black and white rendering of eight species of shark. The banner at the top of the page reads: THE KNOWN AND REPUTED MANEATERS.

The riffling begins again, stops on a grizzly photograph of scar tissue on six former shark victims. Riffling -- stop. Photograph of five Ichthyologists posing on wooden stools, framed by the enormous jaws of a prehistoric shark from the family Carcharodon charcharias.


his reading glasses reflecting a stack of twelve library books, all on the subject of sharks and shark attacks. The door opens and Ellen enters, quietly, in respect for Brody's mood.

ELLEN Can you stand something to eat?

BRODY Love a cup of tea. With lemon.

Ellen walks past Brody to the window and looks out the window which overlooks the south bay. It is the hour of dusk.

ELLEN Mikey loves his birthday present.

BRODY Where is he?

ELLEN (with a slight laugh) He's sitting in it.

Brody gets up, concerned, and joins her at the window.

ELLEN Honey. He has it tied up to the jetty with a double-knot.


Michael is sitting in the boat, but two of his young school chums are in the water, swimming around it. Brody opens the window and calls down:

BRODY Son! -- Out of the water now!

MICHAEL My boat's neat, Dad!

BRODY (turning to Ellen) Tell him I want him out of the ocean.

ELLEN It's three feet deep, Martin. You said that shark was half way back to Florida.

BRODY (angry now) Michael! Come inside the house!

ELLEN It's his birthday tomorrow.

BRODY I told him not to go out until he memorized the handbook, safety reg- ulations and ---

Ellen's eyes drift down to the open book. One large text is open to a page of illustrations. Among them is the famous painting, The Gulf Stream, which depicts a black fisherman in a small dinghy much like Michael's, being assaulted by the pressing jaws of three man-eaters. Startled, Ellen closes the book, opens the window and sticks her head out.

ELLEN You heard your father! Out now!


A jelly-bowl woman visitor to Amity's beaches plunges head- long into the white foam. There's enough of her stuffed into a one-piece bathing suit to sate the appetite of any shark for weeks. Remarkably buoyant, she chops at the water revealing other cheerful Sunday bathers trying to enjoy the last uncluttered weekend before the holiday crowds.


Brody is balefully alert this morning, sitting straight- back in his beach chair, coating the swimming area with careful looks. About ten other adults and a dozen children attend this casual birthday get-together.

MAX I don't envy you this summer, Chief. Every year the swarms get worse.

MAX'S WIFE I know now why there's not a sane Parisian left in Paris from July to September.

Brody hears a SCREAM from the water. He cranes his neck past Max's wife in order to see.


A young lady is being pulled underwater to her hair. Instantly, she is jerked up again -- sitting on her boyfriend's shoulders, laughing hysterically.


MAX What?

BRODY Did you say something?

MAX No -- yeah, I was wondering if it's true. That you sit in your car the whole while over on the mainland ferry.


His son Michael along with sever other boys rush headlong into the gentle surf with their inflatable rubber rafts. Another youngster, Alex Kintner gathers up his Day-Glow yellow raft, but his mother takes issue and a tug-of-war ensues.

Overlapping dialogue:

MAX'S WIFE ALEX What a terrible thing to say.Please let me take my raft, Mom! MAX C'mon Penny, I'm not ashamed MOTHER to admit that when I fly, myLet me see your fingertips. feet sweat right through my (he holds them out) socks.They're beginning to prune. Ten more minutes.


The fat woman is going out too far.

ALEX' VOICE Fifteen!

We stay on the fat woman, almost hypnotically.

DENHERDER'S VOICE I can't believe it! Brody!


Snapping out of it. Looks up at the dripping Selectman.

BRODY (false normalcy) How's the water?

DENHERDER Fine! Cold. (to Ellen who walks over and sits next to Brody) How'd you do it -- getting him to the beach?

ELLEN It's Michael's birthday.

DENHERDER Hope we get this weather next weekend!


The fat woman is not where he last remembered seeing her. He sort of rises to one knee, his eyes combing the surf.

ELLEN (kissing him on the cheek) Do you want me to call the boys in? Honey, if this worries you ---

MAX (bolting down his drink) Does this -- mortal fear of the water have a clinical name, Martin?

BRODY (throwing it away) Drowning.


A fish-eye view of people lying on rafts. From below we see the outlines of swimmers, arms and legs dangling tantalizingly in the blue water. Traveling this way from raft to raft, there comes a space of open water followed by a quick view of a single raft. A pair of feet kicking and arms paddling produces bizarre underwater vibrations, louder than human ears would normally perceive.


The fat lady floating on her back, wearing pink sunglasses. A black object surfaces next to her. It emerges as a bather in a black bathing cap.


paddling in circles, making motorboat sounds.


kissing, drawing each other below the surface.


separating from his friends, eating a huge piece of cake and trying to steer with the other hand.


They begin a water fight, slapping at the ocean with karate- type blows, sending little explosions of water at each other. Then, no more than ten feet beyond the fighting, a genuine water eruption upstages the child's play. Everybody turns just as the ocean flattens itself out again. A pug-faced over-sized twelve year old named "P.J." renews the fighting with a genuine Karate yell.


He hits the water, which sprays all over another youngster.


His face dripping with red rivulets.

51CLOSE - P.J.51

Looks down at his hand. The water surrounding all the boys is slick with blood.


People begin to congregate around an older gentleman, definitely a mainlander by his outfit.

MAINLANDER It came out of the water. Didn't anybody else see it?

WOMAN TOURIST There's blood.


He stands all the way up this time. Parents begin calling -- a frantic inventory for lost children up and down the beach. Brody is on the move, barreling to the shoreline. He kicks up sand passing Alex' mother, who looks up from her novel annoyed.


Other names from hysterical parents as the panic of a yet unseen tragedy rises.


Appears from the shoot of a breaking wave. He is all right but the wave that curls after him carries the shredded pieces of the Day-Glow yellow raft. The foam that breaks wide on the sandy beach is tinged with pink.


A crowd of men and women in an angry tangle outside of Brody's office. These are the shop owners, real estate brokers, hotel managers and Selectmen of the Island. Through the windows, the Southbeach High School Band is practicing for the Fourth of July Parade. Brody and Vaughn exit Brody's office and enter the fray.

VAUGHN I'm glad everyone could make this meeting. Why don't we wander down the hall to my office where there's room.

All follow Brody and Vaughn. Meadows pushes through the crunch to speak.

MEADOWS Don't keep us in suspense Mayor. What's the verdict?

Vaughn cannot bring himself to say it right away.

BRODY Larry and I have agreed to close all beaches for a limited period of time to give us a chance to contact the Port Authority and United States Coast Guard out on Montaux.

MRS. TAFT Well, that could take all summer!

VAUGHN Twenty-four hours.

BRODY (turns angry) We never agreed to that.

MR. WISEMAN I do a thrifty business her but I'll not see it flourish at the price of any more lives.

MRS. TAFT Three reservations cancelled and I still have August rentals open.

VAUGHN So do I, Martha, so do I.

They reach Vaughn's office. It is being painted. Newspapers are strewn all over the floor and paint-splattered tarps over the furniture. Vaughn's secretary still dutifully takes calls.

SECRETARY Larry, two Newsday reporters and one from the New York Times, cal- ling every 15 minutes.

MR. POSNER Good people, nobody saw a shark.

MEADOWS What they'll print is maybe it was a shark.

MR. POSNER Oh wonderful, and what we'll have is maybe a summer.

MR. POLK Town'll lose tax revenue, municipal services'll deteriorate, the people'll begin to move away. Oh, I don't care. I never raised my kids to be somebody's lunch.

VAUGHN We have no way of keeping the lid on what happened yesterday. There were well over a hundred bathers on the beach, three-quarters of them from the mainland.

Vaughn leads the way down the hall toward the Bureau of Records room.

MR. GARDNER I'm not interested in participating in any cover-up Mayor.

VAUGHN I wouldn't worry too much about that, Max. The President himself couldn't stop the mushrooming at this point.

Selectman Denherder almost whispers in Vaughn's ear.

DENHERDER But couldn't we just say the kid drowned?

VAUGHN (whispering back) We couldn't even find the little bastard.

Vaughn opens the door to the Bureau of Records. About two dozen children sit around, twisting multi-colored Kleenex into artificial flowers for the big parade. Vaughn turns his face into a condescending grin.

VAUGHN Could the big people have a grownup meeting in here, please, children.


A voice from behind Vaughn draws him away. It is a small but muscular black man named Salvatore.


He steps out of the shadows, hat in hand.

SALVATORE Mister Quint sent me down from Jacobstown.

VAUGHN What for?

SALVATORE Well...he out catchin' them things every day practily. Price's right, he come catch yours here.

VAUGHN What's he get?

SALVATORE Ten thousand and a color TV.

VAUGHN (outraged) How much?

SALVATORE Twenty-seven inch. Japanese one.

Vaughn studies the little blinking man, ready to laugh.

VAUGHN Mister Quint's services are not required, thanks. (stopping a secretary) Is there an empty office anywhere in this goddam building?

SECRETARY Weights and Measures nobody ever uses.

Vaughn starts away and the crowd follows.

DENHERDER I'd haul it in myself before I'd pay anything to that maniac...you wanna hear what he did to three friends of mine on a Saint Valentine's Day sporting charter?

They are halted in their tracks by the grim appearance of Mrs. Kintner and her benign father. She is dressed in church white with a black arm band. Mrs. Kintner never says a word. She has just tacked something to the community bulletin board and is walking through the parting crowd. With sympathy, all watch her leave, then press up to the cork board. Brody fights his way through everyone until we are standing over his shoulder, staring at a homemade poster that offers:


BRODY (to Vaughn) Listen, Larry, I'm going to talk to her. This isn't a contest we want everybody from Boston to Quebec entering.

MRS. TAFT I agree. If she's going to adver- tise, I wouldn't recommend out-of- city papers. There's enough of us here in Amity could take care of this.

BRODY Larry, I'm responsible for the public safety around here....

VAUGHN So I think tomorrow you should go out with whoever, and see that they don't get hurt.

BRODY But nobody sport-fishes for shark!

No one will listen. Already plans are being discussed, sides chosen, boats, tackle and tactics recommended. The din overrules Brody, who we pull close to and ---



A naked 100-watt bulb illuminates the electric grinder purring in one corner. The slick black carcass of a pilot whale dominates the lighted area.

Quint is hacking slabs off the whale with his Marine machete as his mate, Salvatore rolls an empty barrel to the grinder.

SALVATORE (suspicious) Where you find this whale anyway?

QUINT Way out. Dead as a doornail.

SALVATORE How come harpoon holes in him?

Quint doesn't reply as he hacks away. The mate rolls away a full barrel.

SALVATORE You hardly never use this chummin' for shark.

QUINT For some kinds.

Quint muscles a new slab into the grinder, slowing it to a low growl as it purees the blubber.

QUINT Go hose the deck, we're chartered for nine a.m.

SALVATORE (awed, looking at chum) Think it's one of those they got down there?

Quint's grim smile is reply enough. Salvatore, looking worried, indicates some barrels full of whale pulp.

SALVATORE Load these on or what?

Quint is hacking revenge from the mutilated carcass. He spits away the dripping perspiration.

QUINT 'Not required'...you heard the man. (answering Salvatore's question) Just a regular charter tomorrow... I'll keep this on ice for a while.


Chop, chop, chop....



whump, whump, whump...pounding the sharpened standard into the sand. The sign reads: NO SWIMMING OR WADING -- Amity P.D.


Hendricks and another deputy are assisting Brody. Silhouettes of townspeople look on like mourners at a funeral.

In the background some workmen are taking down the shutters from a quaint summer cottage. They pause to watch the declining moments of the day.

Three Selectmen also stand watching. One of them seems to be whispering bounty news to three youngish men on a nearby dune.

Sounds: Surf and hammering.



Selectman Denherder and his buddy, Charlie, a professional angler, push a wheelbarrow ahead of them as they near the tumble-down jetty that leads fifty feet out into the black water. Both men scuff along, exhausted.

DENHERDER You wanna call it a night after here?

CHARLIE It's only two-thirty. What, are you tired?

DENHERDER Yeah, Charlie, I got my second wind three nibbles back.

Denherder hefts a bloodstained laundry bag from the wheel- barrow, revealing about a hundred feet of coiled dog chain and a large patched inner tube. Charlie takes out a monster hook and together they push the wheelbarrow onto the rickety pier that is only about five feet across.

DENHERDER (reaching into the bag) Leg of lamb this time?

CHARLIE Screw lamb -- let's shoot the sirloin!

DENHERDER (a hyena laugh) We're blowin' half the bounty on bait ---

The splintered pier sways to and fro as the men reach the end and start to work. Charlie baits the hook with a massive chunk of sirloin while Denherder secures the loose end of chain to a skinny piling. Charlie then fastens the inner tube to the chain five feet from the end of the hook.

DENHERDER One more after this, then I'm going home.


Denherder tugs the chain against the piling to prove that it is. Charlie heaves the bait. Splash! The inner tube follows and both men eagerly watch as it floats seaward, the chain playing out from the wheelbarrow.

CHARLIE Tide's taking it right out.

Charlie lights his pipe and sits back against a piling. He turns on his transistor radio and loops one end around a fractured board. Denherder paces, bored to death.

DENHERDER You do this all the time, right, Charlie?

CHARLIE Twenty years.

DENHERDER I can't believe that people pay money to go fishing. This is really dumb. This isn't even relaxing... it's just boring.


Suddenly zipping out, faster and faster, as both men straighten. Denherder is goggle-eyed.

DENHERDER Hey! What's this?

The chain is coming out so fast that it begins to drag the wheelbarrow to the end of the jetty. A section of chain tangles around the handle and flips the entire machine into the air. Both men watch dumbfounded as the inner tube, racing out to sea in a wake of white water, suddenly dips under.

CHARLIE Look at him take it!

DENHERDER Do I set the goddam hook?

CHARLIE Let him do it! Go-go-go-go-go!

It is then that the chain whips taut against the narrow pilings.


A lineup of five decrepit 2 x 4 inch pilings SNAP with a resounding CRACK.


The end of the jetty is yanked loose. Denherder is flipped like a chip over the side and into the cold night water, where he manages to snag hold of a splintered timber.


The severed section of jetty, a joined platform of footboards, is being dragged seaward with Charlie sitting dazed on top of it, his lit pipe still going.


Charlie rolls into the water, sputters, turns to watch the flotilla of wood draw away.


looking seaward.


The end of the jetty makes a 180-degree turn and heads back in his direction.

CHARLIE Holy Jesus Christ!

Denherder steps up on the broken-off piling just to be out of the water.

DENHERDER Get the hell out! Charlie! Swim!

Charlie, inhaling terror, trying to slog to shore. The jetty is getting closer. Suddenly the chain dragging it through the water is severed, and the charging wood falls behind -- an enormous black fin breaks water like a periscope, making course corrections as it comes for Charlie.

Denherder jumps from piling to piling, almost losing his balance on his way to help Charlie. Charlie has reached the last pylon toward open sea, and his hands clamber for a hold. But ---


The algae is too slippery, and his fingers keep sliding back. That's when the fin behind him seems to reach up to the sky and -- CHARLIE SCREAMS. An explosion of water and bubbles mercifully blot out the image.


Ben Gardner, ruddy faced and ornery, is a fisherman as sea- worthy as they come. With his make, Swede, he starts to board the Flicka, a Bertram 28 Sports Fisherman. Absently, he makes preparations for casting off, his attention focused on surrounding dockside activity and ---


Chaos. A dozen cars and trucks double-parked on the dock with out-of-state plates from New Jersey, Rhode Island, Connecticut. Other vehicles are pulling up and parking. Men unloading their weapons. Boarding small boats.

A queue of up-islanders, down-islanders, out-of-towners at the boat rental shack. From rank amateurs in their green golf slacks to the alley-poor in levi tatters -- all of this dis- dainfully observed by Ben Gardner.

Cries of "Cast Off," the starting of diesel engines in con- trast to the flooded baby Evenrudes -- all of this helped along by a lot of honcho swearing.


Sleepy, the old salt bends over the dock, washing out his coffee pot in the oily harbor water. He sets down the pot, pulls a small wooden chair into position, on which teeters a bowl of Kellogg's Rice Krispies, and collapses into it with spoon in hand. He watches stoically as:


Riding up on his police bicycle, Brody joins Deputy Hendricks who is trying to break up an argument at the Rental stand.

HENDRICKS Christ, Martin, that Kintner lady must have taken out an ad in Field & Stream.

BRODY Looks more like the Harvard Lampoon.

OUT-OF-TOWNER I didn't come all the way out here from New Rochelle to be gouged in the seat of the pants by this loan shark.

BOAT RENTAL MAN Prices always go up around here after June One -- isn't that right, Chief? If you want leaky boats at lower rates, go up to the Hamptons.


The narrow channel leading out of port lies ahead. An incoming boat, a Formula 22 Inboard/Outboard with 110 h.p. Volvo engines. A few of the smaller craft begin zig-zagging to clear the right- of-way, their wakes causing annoying chop in the bay.


Matt Hooper, a bearded, backpacking young man, is at the helm, peering ahead at the ragtag armada. He ties up, revealing for the first time a seven-by-four foot steel cage in the stern, drawing some attention.


Another man and his two buddies heft a trash can into one of the boats. He lifts the lid, and the stench throws his head into near whiplash.

WALTER What is this sewage?

BARWOOD For chum. Let's move it.

WALTER What's chum?

BARWOOD Anything that attracts 'em.

Brody looks over the dockrail at the boarding. Eight men have piled into a tiny Glasstron and are now loading various and sundry weapons, from crossbows to spear guns. Brody walks over to the harbormaster.

BRODY Isn't there a limit to how many men those boats'll carry?

HARBORMASTER Sit down next to me, son, and we'll find out.


exchanging distasteful looks with his mate. He is casting off the bow lines just as Felix and Pratt, two down-island characters run over.

FELIX (more a declaration) Okay, we go out with you.

Gardner quickly pushes off, leaving Felix with his boarding leg in the air.

GARDNER Hunt with the pack, sport. I'll fish for it my way.

Felix and Pratt make obscene gestures and run off, looking for boats not yet filled to capacity, trying to make a deal.


Hooper sees Brody, up in arms about something, walking toward him. Hooper starts to speak, but Brody veers aside and yells over the pier at the loading boats.

BRODY No dynamite! Hand that stuff over or you'll never leave port!

MAN IN BOAT It's fireworks. I read somewhere it attracts 'em.

HOOPER Sharks are equipped with two long cords of nerve tissue that function as a sort of radar for homing in on underwater vibrations. (to Brody) Understand you're having a little shark trouble.

Brody turns and walks away, Hooper barely keeping up with him.

HOOPER I know you have a visitor off your southern shores. I think it could be my shark.

BRODY It belongs to whoever catches it. (to a late arrival) You'll move this car to a parking slot, mister, or it won't be here when you get back.

HOOPER Sir, I'm not with these others ---

BRODY It's always nice to meet an educated man.

HOOPER I'm interning at the American Museum of Natural History, but the Oceanographic Research Institute in South Africa is co-sponsoring my thesis paper arm in arm with the Natural Institute of Health and the Marine Fishery Service.

Brody pauses to look hard at Hooper. A careless amateur trips and falls into the harbor beyond him.

BRODY I don't have time to help you with your homework.

Brody goes over to lend a hand. Hooper persists.

HOOPER I'm trying to prove that the shark that killed Christine Watkins last Friday was the same rogue that savaged these.

Hooper pushes a mimeographed sheet in front of Brody. About twenty names and addresses in all.

BRODY One shark did all this?

HOOPER (his excitement multiplying as he goes on) The trail of a rogue shark leads all over the world. This is only a theory. It has never been authen- ticated, but there is a wonderful chance that the shark that killed the Watkins girl and the man-eater I tagged off the Great Barrier Reef are the one and the same. Off and on I've tracked it to New Zealand, Santiago Bay, Cape Town South Africa ...uh...the Gulf of Guinea, then West Palm Beach, Florida last December -- and finally predicted it would follow the warming Gulf Stream into the Northern Seasonal Zones, and release an attack pattern along the Jersey Coast. I was off by just three hundred miles. It hit you instead.

BRODY You'll pardon me i f I don't help you get your Ph.D. while my town here degenerates into some high-class ghost resort.

Brody starts away. In the background all boats are heading toward open ocean.

HOOPER All I'm asking is for a little future cooperation. I could predict future outbursts of attack activity in the area. Use me...Let me use you. I scored 93 on my Orals, for crying out loud!

BRODY We've had two other attacks since the Watkins thing, both fatal. Could you kill it for us?

HOOPER (honest response) No sir, I couldn't.

BRODY Then how do we begin to cooperate?

HOOPER By letting me see Christine Watkins.


The armada is spread out and moving in a ragged circle, fif- teen boats in all. One man heaves cherry bombs into the water. A smaller boat going in the opposite direction offers us Barwood, forking spaghetti leftovers into the ocean while his friend pours out a bottle of ketchup.

A speedboat chugs by, one of the occupants reading instructions aloud from a book entitled "Sharks - East Coast, Vol. I." A boatload of impoverished scallop fishermen throw a net over- board, full of gaps and split ends. The professionals look professional, but the landlubbers out for the $3000 make it impossible for everybody. Collisions are barely averted.

78THE RUBE GOLDBERG ERROR78 thruthru 84The Out-of-Towner in a small boat is bent over in a life and84 death struggle, his rod in a tight arc. His buddy leaps across to lend a hand.

Twenty yards away in another boat the same struggle ensues. This time it's the overloaded boat with the poor scallop fisher- men. Shouts of I'M ON! DIG IN! STRIKE! Then a tangle of tackle springs from the water. They have hooked each other.

Joy turns to swearing. Arnold Felix stands up to applaud the mishap, while his buddy Pratt takes careful aim with his Remington 1100 12-gauge and blasts at the tackle as if it were a clay pigeon. The tangle explodes ---

Both the Out-of-Towners and the Scallop Fisherman falls over backward ---

The Scallop boat swerves right, and bows into an eleven-foot Glasstron ---

A Proud Mariner standing in the stern with his 30.06 is knocked off balance and pitches forward into the drink, his gun exploding outward and ---

The wad of shot from the exploding rifle hits the rigging of a passing boat sending the jib, mains'l and about twenty pounds of rigging on top of the bewildered occupants.


Three men are aboard, one holding a rod which holds a fast arc. A few yards off stern we see a triangular dorsal fin crossing back and forth, struggling, jerking, the mighty tail threshing. One man is screaming success, the other two slapping the angler on the back.


They spot it and sour.

PRATT Well, get over there! He ain't caught it yet!

The owner of Pratt's boat throws it forward and Pratt removes a .45 automatic from the holster of his belt. He tests it, firing once in the air. As they near the scene of the struggle, eleven other boats begin converging, until ---


Everyone wants to get into the act. They are attacking the threshing beast with all they've got. Pratt uses his auto- matic, another blasts point blank with a shotgun. There are occasional water ricochets and the bounty hunters duck from time to time as bullets skip by. Finally, the shark stops threshing.


Their boat has moved close to the shark, closer than Harry's.

PRATT (exultant) Hand me that pole! Quick!

One of his party in the over-filled boat grabs a gaff and leans out to grab the moribund shark. But Harry won't give up the line, still reeling in.

HARRY Beat it! I hooked him!

PRATT How's the family, Harry? (to the man with gaff) Go on and do it!

MAN WITH GAFF We split down the middle?

Pratt nods reluctantly. The man swings, lodges the gaff and hauls the shark up onto the gunwale. A paroxysm of cheers from the surrounding boats. Smoke flares are fired into the air.

HARRY (a tug-of-war) Let go my shark!

It is a ten-foot blue, and what a mess -- splattered with bullet punctures, gashes, bleeding from several orifices. But it is not dead -- it kicks back to life and threatens to cap- size the boat. Pratt panics and fires six times with his .45. The bullets pierce the shark's head, pass through, and split the fiberglass hull through which a flood of water rises. Every- body stands up as the boat slips beneath them.


On a hummock overlooking the cluster of boats stands Quint. He is laughing out loud -- a sharp, piercing bark that has little real humor in it. Below, the circle of boats tighten around the spreading stain of crimson.


Hooper is measuring the bite marks on the Day-Glow raft with his dial calibrators.

HOOPER I'll look at her now if you don't mind.


Hooper scribbles notes, then mumbles something inaudible into his pocket cassette recorder. Coroner Santos looks to Brody, plaintively.

CORONER SANTOS That was a different sort of acci- dent. As I told you ---

BRODY (guilty, angry) Let him.

The coroner hesitates, then walks to the ice chest and slides open the drawer.


At first his face registers shock. Then, with forced composure, Hooper steadies his hands and begins to take pictures with his Minolta.

HOOPER I've heard the boat-propeller story several times. And the nocturnal hatchet-murder story, the dashed- upon-the-razor-coral story -- (to Brody) The little boy was never found?

Brody nods, looking down at his feet.

HOOPER They're very successful creatures, sharks. Eighty million year's antiquity for the species of the Great White. The family goes as far back as three-hundred million. Plenty of time to get good at what they do.

An attendant flies into the room, joyfully out of wind.

ATTENDANT They called from the dock, Mr. Brody! They got it!


He appears stunned.


enjoying a lightheadedness he hasn't felt in weeks.

BRODY Want to see?



dragging the shark by a tail-rope from harbor to beach. A dog follows, barking at the remains of the blue. As they arrive at the beach Meadows takes charge. Talks to both his photographer and the bounty hunters.

MEADOWS (to photographer) I want a good one for under the headline -- nearer the water. Get a group shot with the shark. Use it on page one, six inches by six columns, center.

Some of the men have run ahead, happily knocking down some of Brody's NO SWIMMING signs.

MEADOWS (seeing this) Great! Bring one over here.

In the background; voices, laughter. Some joke about the "big-time fisherman" -- "Ben Gardner, not even back yet!" Others open beer, throw frosty cans around, making it look like a Miller's commercial.

Meadows positions the shark and vigilantes.

MEADOWS Group around Charlie Tuna...that's right. No, leave it clear in back -- closer with the sign.

Brody and Hooper are seen approaching fifty yards up the beach.

MEADOWS Smile, boys! On three, drop the sign. (to photographer) On three, Bill. One...two...three.

Click. Cheers.

MEADOWS One more. Just the two prize-winners.

Mock groans as the posse moves aside. Pratt and the gaffer remain. One of the others raises the sign again for take two.

HARRY I hooked him y'know?

MEADOWS In a little tighter please.

The gaffer doesn't fancy sidling up to the critter.

GAFFER Better check this bastard.

He starts to poke it in the eye. Pratt on the other side leans forward for a closer look, gaff in hand. The gaffer pokes the eye. The Blue shark is wide awake, a vicious lunge in the opposite direction that snaps the gaff in Pratt's hand completely in half.

VOICE IN CROWD Christ! Ain't it dead?

Pratt squeezes out a little smile and shuffles eight feet to his right out of range. Hooper and Brody walk into the frozen tableau. Hooper walks over to the shark, eyeing it with both amusement and disappointment.

BRODY Yours?

HOOPER No, this one's a blue.

HARRY (insisting) I hooked him.

BRODY (persisting) Is it the one?

Hooper unravels a lab thermometer on a long nylon cord, twirling it over his head like a lariat, finally hurling it out into the ocean. He then unhooks a steel tape measure from his bag of tricks and spools out feet and inches from the shark's nose to tail.

HOOPER It's sure big enough -- ten point six feet.

PRATT Who is this guy?

Hooper is reeling in his thermometer.

BRODY (doesn't want to say a 'student') The Institute of Sharks sent him to lend a hand -- Matt Hooper.

PRATT That's right, except he's half a day late now that I already caught it.


reading the thermometer.

HOOPER I'm not so sure. Blue sharks pretty much operate on the warm-water law, and limit their attacks to seventy degrees and up. (holding out thermometer) Ocean's fifty-five.

PRATT (after a stymied beat) Who is this guy?

HOOPER The Great White's body temperature in the lateral musculature is almost eighteen degrees above whatever the temperature of the water. I don't know if this is our bite culprit.

PRATT (beginning to rave) If you'd have seen the fight he put up, you'd shut up. Hell, he ate a nine-year-old boy yesterday morning, the bastard, and goddammit... (kicks the shark in the nose) ...this is my shark!

Hooper removes from its sheath the meanest fourteen-inch hunting knife Pratt has ever seen.

HOOPER Only one way to know for sure... (handing Pratt the knife, handle first) ...and since it's not my shark, I'm not slitting open the belly to see what portions of the boy is still inside. Am I...?

Groans are heard from the bounty hunters, some of whom start to turn away.


Uncomfortable and queasy at the thought of it.


He wraps his hands behind him in defiance of the proffered blade.

PRATT (whiny) Well, shit -- this guy caught it with me. And Harry over there hooked it!


starts to whistle up toward the clouds.


as he poises the knife himself toward the underbelly and ---

BRODY HOOPER Not here, Mr. Hooper ---This could be it. He's big enough all right, but I still can't be sure until ---

BRODY (nods toward upper beach) -- the boy's mother.


Mayor Vaughn, Mrs. Kintner and her father approaching. Mrs. Kintner is draped in black mourning, and never utters a sound. She lifts her veil, walks two paces forward and spits down at the shark, takes two paces back and replaces the veil, recovering her poise.

VAUGHN (to Brody) This it?

HOOPER (interrupting) I won't know until I perform a full autopsy.

VAUGHN (sotto to Brody) Who is this kid?

BRODY He's a fish expert from the Oceano- graphic Foundation.

VAUGHN (looking him up and down; in a wholly irreverent tone) Well, it doesn't take much of an expert to see that this is the big- gest, ugliest, meanest-looking shark ever hooked around Amity Island. (to the gathering of men) Who caught her?

Harry steps forward, pointing.

HARRY This guy, Pratt, and me.

VAUGHN A thousand dollars apiece is not a bad day's haul.

Vaughn begins shaking hands with the three winners, and Meadows snaps some bonus pictures. Mrs. Kintner's father draws close to Brody and Vaughn, handing Vaughn a card from his pocket.

FATHER At whatever the cost, my daughter has requested that all preparations be made to ship this animal to her home town of Marblehead, Mass. Can you accommodate us?

VAUGHN What the devil for?

Nary a blink from the old man, and Vaughn looks to Hooper, weighing the alternatives.

VAUGHN We'll see it through, Mr. Sands. (to Martin) Martin, you start collecting those signs. And keep your friend away from that demon with his pigsticker there. Let's show some respect for the loss we've incurred. (to Meadows; walking him up the beach) Get the story on the state wire. Try to get AP and UPI to pick it up in New York or Boston to put it on the national. Call Dave Axelrod in New York and tell him this is from me, and he owes me one.


walking up the beach with Pratt, Harry and the gaffer follow- ing behind.


kneels next to the shark, making a face at the wafting stench.

BRODY Some field you picked.

HOOPER Well, there's dolphins -- but they talk too much.



One man is at the radio, another, a laundry-white officer, walks toward Brody.

OFFICER Can't seem to raise your Mr. Gardner. Maybe his radio is out. Or he could have put in somewhere else.

BRODY He would have called his wife.

They walk out together, into an eerie dusk fog.

BRODY No point sending up a plane, huh?

OFFICER I'll get a patrol boat on it. If you'd like to go ---

BRODY (laughing under his breath) I don't do so hot on boats.

OFFICER (going) We'll contact you down there if ---

BRODY (urgently stopping him) Listen ---

OFFICER (they've been over this) Brody, sharks are always around. Blues, browns, makos, thousands ---

BRODY Can't you get rid of just one for us?

OFFICER Where is it? How do we find it? It shouldn't come around again. Odds are worse on the highways.

BRODY But you could protect the beach -- ! I mean, you have access to ---

OFFICER (stopping him) We could put up a show. We could give you spotters, but in where the waves break, the water's cloudy and it's hard to spot. Or we could string out shark repellent -- sometimes it's effec- tive. But then, sometimes ---

BRODY What do I do then? Pray for lousy weather?

OFFICER We're just the Coast Guard, Brody.

Brody walks into the fog until he disappears.


Brody walking away from the station and lighthouse preoccupied with a dozen alternative thoughts. A shattering blast from the fog horn catches him unprepared and he nearly comes out of his skin. Hands clasped to ears, he passes a sign that can barely be seen through the fog: WARNING! FOG HORN CAN BE DAMAGING TO YOUR HEARING!


Hooper is having after-dinner with Ellen and Martin Brody, while a spectacular heat-lightning display colors the night clouds and dances on the water miles out.

HOOPER There're good things to be said about meshing. It's worked in Australia for years. Repellent's a myth. Now there's a cable avail- able charged with 7,000 amps that could be strung along the entire bathing area.

ELLEN We have Kahlua, Mr. Hooper.

HOOPER Matt. And I don't drink alcohol, but thank you. (back to Brody) We think the Great Whites possess an electrical sense ---

Michael walks in. He doesn't smile after the Sunday incident. He is quite dry this evening, and is in possession of a ghastly watercolor of a shark tearing a man in two.

MICHAEL (shy, his eyes on Hooper) Mrs. Pfister had us all draw sharks in school today.

BRODY I told you not to wear that cracker- jack ring. It's too big -- you're gonna catch it on something and lose a finger.

HOOPER (always interested) This is a very good rendering, Mike. Looks like a thresher. Where'd you learn to draw him?

MICHAEL I -- cheated, and found pictures in one of Dad's books.

HOOPER (delighted) Get bitten by the subject...or just morbid curiosity?

BRODY More in the spirit of the public interest.

MICHAEL Mrs. Pfister says if we have a bad season, we could sell our pictures to the tourists. We get to paint through American History again tomorrow.

Ellen and Brody exchange worried looks. Hooper digs around in his pocket for something, then looks through his satchel purse.

ELLEN You want me to speak to her tomorrow?

Hooper hands Michael a shark's tooth on a wire necklace.

HOOPER I picked this up in Macao. There's supposed to be a superstition about these things -- that if you keep it with you, you'll be safe from shark bite.

Michael smiles for the first time, and a warm moment passes between him and Hooper.

MICHAEL I gotta show this to Guber.

BRODY Don't sleep with that on, son. You'll cut something in the night.

ELLEN (squeezing his hand across the table) That was nice. Michael hasn't smiled since his birthday party and that Kintner accident.

HOOPER He was a witness?

BRODY (changing subject, referring to storm) Yeah. Listen. I'm no crack meteor- ologist, but I think we're in store for some surf.

HOOPER Hope not. I'm longlining in the morning. You should come along, Martin.

BRODY In case you haven't caught the island gossip, I never take baths -- just showers.

HOOPER Aquaphobia or what? Mind if I smoke?

BRODY No. Here, wait.

Brody takes out a lighter as Hooper puts a twisted cigarette in his mouth. Instead of inhaling, Hooper takes a long hit, and it doesn't take long for the shock to beat the aroma to where Ellen and Martin sit.

HOOPER (behind the hit) I'm going to try and snag the old boy with 3/32 of an inch stainless steel aircraft cable.

BRODY (dubiously amused) I could throw your ass in jail for that.

HOOPER Brought my own cage, thanks. If this really is my shark, he's got a Peterson disc tag on his anal fin. It can't be seen from a boat.

BRODY (growing anger at this young man's impudence) Once hooked, what then?

Hooper brightens and reaches into his duffel, pulling out a shiny stainless steel object about the size of an alarm clock.

HOOPER Biotelemetry. It's a radio collar. I bell the cat and then follow him anywhere. I'm trying to make a deal with a satellite tracking station at Houston, Texas.

BRODY (getting riled) Now let's wait a minute. You have him hooked, right?

HOOPER (trying to be jovial) Well, I'll never take him without a fight, but --

BRODY And you stick that -- cigarette case to his neck?

HOOPER (wondering where this is leading) That's the game plan.

BRODY Then you let it loose. You let it go free.

Hooper sees where this has arrived. He swallows the roach and takes a breath.

HOOPER I know what you're saying, Martin.

BRODY Your little lab experiment has seen three innocent people killed over the past three days.

ELLEN Martin, it's not his shark.

BRODY And your list makes me sick. You carry it around with you like you're keeping score.

HOOPER Nature has no conscience, Mr. Brody.

BRODY Oh, Christ. Whose side are you on? You told me you'd help us get rid of it.

HOOPER What I said was, I'd help predict future attacks in your area. If this device works, the early warn- ing to other shorefront resorts -- not just here, but anywhere it ranges in the world ---

BRODY I don't give a crap about your worldwide conquest. What about right here? This town is going under today! Where's your humanity? You could kill this thing for us, flatten its ass and ---

HOOPER (rising) I'm staying at the Abilard Arms.

Hooper gathers his things, climbs into his backpack. Smiles at Ellen and kisses her hand. Ellen smiles, not yet recovered from embarrassment.

HOOPER I really liked dinner.

He leaves. Ellen looks at her hand. Brody turns and sees her.

ELLEN (it's all she can say) Nobody kisses hands anymore.

BRODY If you stick that wet spot under the black light at the Coney Island Aquarium, they'll let you in for nothing.


The boat is slicing gentle swells into the flat water. Hooper is mainlining from a big reel. Tuna-halibut clips attached to each of the lines that bear hooks and floats every ten yards. Large bait chunks are tossed into the water. In the boat with him is Meadows, huddled in a corner and trying to appear eager to learn. Hooper is not cooperating. He storms around, upset and frustrated.

MEADOWS Okay. What's the second species of shark on your dangerous list?

Hooper opens the throttle half-speed, looking into the sonar display that casts a green glow in the soupy weather. A blip appears on the screen that draws a speculative hum from Hooper.

MEADOWS (trying to sound scientific) Fish activity?

HOOPER Very deep -- looks like a school. (more to himself) Mackerel. Really clumped together.

As the two huddle together in the green spill, Hooper touches the throttle to increase speed, still slightly puzzled.

HOOPER Staying right with us.


MEADOWS (o.s.) And didn't you say activity stops? If any of those whoppers are around?

HOOPER Tends to. Gets very still down there.


looks up from the scope, and his expression turns to horror.

MEADOWS Look out!

Hooper looks up in time to avert a near collision with Ben Gardner's boat, the Flicka.

It is completely awash, with water in the cockpit right up to the gunwales. Seat cushions and hatch covers float about, banging and thumping. The boat is wallowing and it seems that, given a touch more weight, it will sink.

MEADOWS (shocked) That's Ben Gardner's boat! Ben! Ben!

Hooper comes up alongside, cuts his engine and goes forward to tie his bowline to a forward cleat on the Flicka.




2005-2024. ! homeenglish@mail.ru