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probably cost about a million dollars, and from an informational point of view they don't amount to a cup of spit." Brody picked up the heap of papers and piled them atop a radiator. He pulled the chair next to Meadows' desk and sat down.
    Meadows rooted around in a large brown paper bag, pulled out a plastic cup and a cellophane-wrapped sandwich, and slid them across the desk to Brody. Then he began to unwrap his own lunch, four separate packages which he opened and spread before himself with the loving care of a jeweler showing off rare gems: a meatball hero, oozing tomato sauce; a plastic carton filled with oily fried potatoes; a dill pickle the size of a
    small squash; and a quarter of a lemon meringue pie. He reached behind his chair and from a small refrigerator withdrew a sixteen-ounce can of beer. "Delightful," he said with
    a smile as he surveyed the feast before him.
    "Amazing," said Brody, stifling an acid belch. "Absofuckinlutely amazing. I must have had about a thousand meals with you, Harry, but I still can't get used to it."
    "Everyone has his little quirks, my friend," Meadows said as he lifted his sandwich. "Some people chase other people's wives. Some lose themselves in whiskey. I find my solace in nature's own nourishment."
    "That'll be some solace to Dorothy when your heart says, 'That's enough, buster, adios.'"
    "We've discussed that, Dorothy and I," said Meadows, filtering the words through a mouthful of bread and meat, "and we agree that one of the few advantages man has over other animals is the ability to choose the way to bring on his own death. Food may well kill me, but it's also what has made life such a pleasure. Besides, I'd rather go my way than end up in the belly of a shark. After this morning, I'm sure you'll agree." Brody was in the midst of swallowing a bite of egg salad sandwich, and he had to force it past a rising gag. "Don't do that to me," he said. They ate in silence for a few moments. Brody finished his sandwich and milk, wadded the sandwich wrapper and stuffed it into the plastic cup. He leaned back and lit a cigarette. Meadows was still eating, but Brody knew his appetite wouldn't be diminished by any discussion. He recalled a time when Meadows had visited the scene of a bloody automobile accident and proceeded to interview police and survivors while sucking on a coconut Popsicle.
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    "About the Watkins thing," Brody said. "I have a couple of thoughts, if you want to hear them." Meadows nodded. "First, it seems to me that the cause of death is cut-anddried. I've already talked to Santos, and –“
    "I did, too."
    "So you know what he thinks. It was a shark attack, clear and simple. And if you'd
    seen the body, you'd agree. There's just no --"
    "I did see it."
    Brody was astonished, mostly because he couldn't imagine how anyone who had seen that mess could be sitting there now, licking lemon-pie filling off his fingers. "So you agree?"
    "Yes. I agree that's what killed her. But there are a few things I'm not so sure of."
    "Like what?"
    "Like why she was swimming at that time of night. Do you know what the temperature was at around midnight? Sixty. Do you know what the water temperature was? About fifty. You'd have to be out of your mind to go swimming under those conditions."
    "Or drunk," said Brody, "which she probably was."
    "Maybe. No, you're right --probably. I've checked around a little, and the Footes
    don't mess with grass or mescaline or any of that stuff. There's one other thing that bothers me, though."
    Brody was annoyed. "For Christ's sake, Harry, stop chasing shadows. Once in a while, people do die by accident."
    "It's not that. It's just that it's damn funny that we've got a shark around here when
    the water's still this cold."
    "Is it? Maybe there are