The Black Jersey

by Jorge Zepeda Patterson

SERGEI TALANCÓN (ROMANIA/ROCCA)

  11:49

  9

  ANSELMO CONTI (ITALY/LAVEZZA)

  14:38

  10

  ROL CHARPENELLE (FRANCE/TOURGAZ)

  14:52

  Stage 15

  Mende—Valence, 183 km.

  I began the day with an optimism I hadn’t felt in weeks, or at least since Favre’s little mustache had come into my life. Fiona’s body, which I was entangled with when I woke up, had the alchemical ability to transform shit into gold. It helped that the alliance with her and Ray made me feel as if I were part of a secret and powerful league rather than a simple domestique and fake detective being exploited by a manipulative commissioner.

  And, besides, the course that day was for idiots. It had a minor climb in the middle of the route that barely counted, where the entire peloton would arrive en masse after many kilometers of subtle descent. It was a typical transitional stage as we neared the Alps. Our enemies wouldn’t attack today no matter how much they wanted to. Or at least not on the bike, which made me remember that there was danger whether there were peaks or not. The very thought caused a spasm between my clavicles, and I invoked the memory of Fiona’s body to get rid of it.

  I tried to concentrate on the day’s tasks. Making lists is a great tool to fight anxiety. One, to run the race as efficiently as Steve’s physical recovery would allow. Two, to talk to Favre about Axel to avoid any unnecessary rudeness toward my soigneur on the part of the cops and, in the process, gather as much information as possible to take to the meeting with Fiona and Ray later that night. Three, to grill Steve to see how much he knew about Giraud’s scheming. These past few days I’d seen them whispering more than usual. Until now I had assumed it was about technical things, but Fiona’s and Ray’s suspicions suggested Steve might know a little more about what was going on than I had assumed. I began with number three.

  “Did you talk to Stevlana? Did she fall for the story about Margaret?” I asked as soon as I sat down beside Steve at the breakfast table. I wanted to immediately raise a topic that could bring us together. I was learning a little something from the commissioner’s tactics.

  “It worked like a charm,” he said, pleased with himself, and he gave me a thumbs-up. “She’s in New York now.”

  “And is your dad nervous?” Mr. Panata was already in France, but, being respectful of our wishes, he wouldn’t show up for the Tour until we arrived in Paris.

  “I calmed him down; luckily, he hadn’t seen any of the rumors published in The Daily Sun.”

  “Did you hear that the cops suspect the accident with the tube was deliberate?” Up until that moment, Steve and I had not discussed the subject. The official explanation was that the arrests of Axel and the Dandy were a direct result of an investigation regarding negligence.

  “Giraud brought me up to speed. You see? I told you something strange was going on, that we had to protect ourselves from something.”

  “What does Giraud think?”

  “He thinks it’s all coming from the Italians, that Ferrara and two or three of his people are playing out their entire repertoire of dirty tricks now that they’ve got the podium in sight. He says he’s had run-ins with them for years.”

  “Listen, do you think it could be something between Giraud and the Italians? Could we be in the middle of a little war between them?” I’d finally taken the conversation in the direction I wanted. Steve thought for a few seconds.

  “But then, how do you explain Fleming?” His response left me speechless. So Steve knew that the Englishman’s death was a murder. My friend had not said a word to me to indicate he thought it was anything other than suicide. If I needed any proof that something had broken between us, there it was. He interpreted my surprised expression as an effort on my part to pretend I hadn’t known. “I suppose the commissioner told you,” he said in a scolding tone.

  That meant Steve knew everything or almost everything. I preferred to think the fact that he hadn’t told me was payback for my not having shared with him my conversations with Favre. He had a right to be offended.

  “I didn’t want to worry you,” I responded sincerely. I remembered how sad he’d grown years earlier when we were told about my mother’s sudden death. “I’m sorry,” I added. He gave me a resigned half-smile.

  “We can’t forget that you and I were riding around together before any of these other people showed up,” he said, moving his head in a semicircle, the gesture taking in everything that is the Tour. I thought that Lombard came before him, but I didn’t say anything. “That includes Giraud, Stevlana, and Fiona,” he added, scolding me yet again.

  I was surprised. Generally speaking, he was even less inclined than me to talk about his feelings.

  “Benny asked a private security firm called Protex to initiate an investigation parallel to the police’s,” he went on. He was clearly trying to be honest and signal that, from this moment on, we would be open about any secrets we’d previously been guarding. “It’s going to cost a bunch of money but, as my agent, he wanted to know if you and I are really in danger.”

  “What have they found out?” I asked, practically salivating at the idea that there might finally be a light in the darkness. Favre had infected me with his goddamned bloodhound tendencies.

  “They’re expensive but they’re good,” said Steve. “They have a way of getting into the police files. They’ve got two private detectives working on the case, although they prefer I not meet them or have any kind of relationship with them. They email me a report every night.”

  “Well, what have they found out?” I asked impatiently. Now, rather than a bloodhound, I felt like a dog in a butcher shop.

  “The police found traces of a military-grade plastic explosive in the fragments from the gas tank from Fiona’s trailer.”

  “That’s in the police files?” I said, indignant.

  “Didn’t the commissioner tell you?” he asked, triumphant that his secrets were better than mine.

  “No, that bastard didn’t tell me anything,” I responded, defeated. Apparently, I was destined to be Steve’s domestique even when it came to detective matters. “What else?”

  “Your bike was sold to an intermediary two months ago.” He paused to consult an email on his cell. “It was a Dutch guy. He then sold it to a private collector, and that’s when they lost track of it. They only know he was French.”

  “And what do they know about Matosas and his people?”

  “Conti has a criminal record, and Ferrara was involved in drugs in and out of our circuit, but there’s nothing to pin on them yet. They’ve already confirmed that for some of the ‘accidents’ before the Tour, they had alibis. In some cases, they weren’t even in the same country. So, if they were involved, it’s something much bigger than just the two of them.”

  “Do they have anything on Giraud? I know the Fonar owners want another DS for next year. He must be desperate.”

  “He can be a jerk, I agree, but you don’t think he’s a killer, do you? He wasn’t even in Le Havre the night Fleming died. He told me he was going to Amiens because he was meeting some analysts coming from Paris. He ended up staying overnight and driving back early in the morning to meet us for breakfast.”

  The center where we did our biometric and performance analyses was just outside the capital. Every four or five days an expert would catch up with us wherever we were to discuss the progress of each racer and possibilities for the remaining stages.

  “That’s pretty convenient, don’t you think? Do you know what time he drove back? Protex could find that out, right?” To be honest, I was mostly provoking Steve, although suddenly I could feel the purple spots on my neck, as if something had act
ivated them.

  “Giraud is an asshole but he’s not an imbecile. If he wanted to kill Fleming he would never have done it personally. Everybody recognizes that belly of his a mile away. He could have used a hit man, though,” he mused. He said this as if he were deciding whether to take a taxi or an Uber. Where was the innocent golden boy? We were now alone in the hotel dining room, accompanied only by waiters who kept looking at us, hoping we would get up so they could finish their shift. We said goodbye and agreed to meet two hours later on the team bus.

  I still had time to see the commissioner about the second issue on my list: helping Axel. Grinning, I wrote Favre a note in his own telegraphic style: “I’m in my room until 11. I have new info. Urgent.” The bloodhound would not be able to resist sniffing that.

  On the way to my room, I thought about what Steve had told me. He was right about one thing: Our DS could be explosive and resentful but he wasn’t dumb. He would never have taken the risk of being recognized. And yet, I still had a bad feeling knowing that he’d stayed in another town the night of Fleming’s murder; it was too good an alibi. That’s what I should have said to Steve, but this always happens to me: I only think of the perfect rebuttal when I can no longer use it.

  Favre knocked on my door just a few minutes later.

  “What did you find out, sergeant? What do you have?” he said, panting. He must’ve rushed up the stairs.

  “Good morning, commissioner. Would you like something to drink?” In fact, I didn’t have anything other than water and a few gels to offer him.

  “Yes, yes, good morning. What is your news?” His poker face had been replaced by visible anxiety. There were pearls of sweat on his little mustache, all in a row. I wanted to drag out my response just to test his patience, but I too could barely contain myself.

  “I found out the gas-tank blast was caused by a military-grade plastic explosive, according to a police specialist. I thought you should know.” I congratulated myself for that last sentence.

  “I do know. The information came to me late, and since we couldn’t see each other yesterday…” he said, irritated, as if it were my fault. Then he looked at me as if trying to guess my weight. I could practically see a line of text on his forehead reading: How the hell did he find out?

  “And have you found out anything else about my bike? Who was it sold to?” Now I was the one playing poker. He scrutinized me again, trying to figure out if the question was genuine. He decided not to chance it.

  “It was sold for a brief time to a Dutch businessman, and he sold it to an anonymous buyer.” He said it in one breath, like someone who wants to swallow a bitter drink as quickly as possible. “That’s all we know.” Obviously, the commissioner was used to receiving secrets, not telling them.

  “Are Axel and the Dandy still detained? What you’ve just told me exonerates them; they didn’t sabotage the bike, did they?”

  “If it only worked like that,” he said in the sorrowful tone that a carpet merchant might use because he can’t lower the price. “That’s not at all clear. And let’s not get into the other offenses they could be charged with,” he added, letting that veiled threat hang in the air.

  “So long as Fonar doesn’t accuse them of anything, and it hasn’t and it won’t, there’s nothing to investigate. We both know that. We need them back to work; the team resents their absence.”

  “We’re doing everything we can,” he said, irritated once more. “These things take time.” Our dialogue wasn’t fun anymore for me either; I’d lost my initial advantage.

  “Don’t make me a double victim, commissioner. First a tricked-up bike, and now my soigneur detained. Axel has worked with me for years and he knows how to get me in shape. Yesterday I was numb during the race.”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” he said indifferently.

  “Ray Lumiere visited me,” I said abruptly, playing my last card. “He wanted to know what I thought of the incidents. I responded ambiguously, but you know how reporters can be. He kept insisting, and I ended up saying I too would see what I could do,” I concluded, using his own phrase. This was the equivalent of opening my fly and putting the measuring tape on the table, and almost as tasteless, but I was done with subtleties. If he threatened to hold Axel indefinitely, I could try to bluff that I’d actually be willing to work with Ray to make the scandal public.

  It worked. “I think Axel has already told us everything we could use,” Favre conceded at last. “But Marciel still has a few things to tell,” he added curtly, using the Dandy’s real name.

  “Is there any relationship between Daniela and Ferrara?” I asked now without any ulterior motive. Having dealt with Axel and taken care of my second goal of the day, it didn’t make any sense to keep playing with the commissioner. My tone returned to that of a helpful colleague.

  “Their families know each other. One of Ferrara’s daughters went to the same school, although they were in different grades,” he answered, embracing the cease-fire.

  “This would begin to close the circle around Matosas’s people,” I said. “Of the three in front we might have to cross out Medel. Two of the domestiques from the Baleares team got clandestine visits three nights in a row that lasted into the wee hours. It turned out they were prostitutes sent by an anonymous benefactor. In other words, somebody was trying to mess with the Spaniard. This leaves us with just two aspirants to the title who have been untouched by any of these criminal events: Matosas and Paniuk.”

  I don’t know why I offered the commissioner this information. I suppose I wanted to pay him back in some way after he shared about Daniela. But I hadn’t even finished saying it before I started to feel guilty about being disloyal to Ray, who had given me the information. My discomfort lasted even after Favre left and I dressed for the race. But it vanished when I went out to the hallway and saw an exhausted Axel going into his room. Whatever I had offered in the transaction with the commissioner had been worth it.

  On the team bus on our way to the starting line in Mende, I asked Steve how he was feeling. He mimed as if he were the Hulk ripping his shirt to ribbons, and although he grimaced, he gave a thumbs-up. But once we got on the road I realized he was not well just yet: His cadence hadn’t recovered the elegance and efficiency that had made him famous, and although it was less noticeable now, the stiffness in one of his arms was inhibiting his style. The doctors had said Steve hadn’t broken anything, but it was clear the bruising had an effect that would take a while to go away. Nonetheless, his improvement had been noticeable over the past two days and we still had three to go before the summits in the Alps, where everything would be decided. I congratulated myself on the ease with which we were tackling the 183 kilometers before us. Or at least that’s what I thought.

  Nine out of ten stages like today’s end with the entire peloton arriving together at the finish line. When it doesn’t work out like that, it’s because a little group of ten or more racers manages to make an early breakaway, and if they manage it, it’s because there isn’t a contender among them to justify the extra effort a peloton would need to give chase. These are stages in which the leaders in the rankings don’t move much. Matosas and company decided it would be different this time.

  I was ready to respond to practically any escape or blocking tactic they might try. But I could never have imagined what they had in mind. Two and a half hours after we’d begun, just as we started to climb the only obstacle in our path, L’Escrinet summit, Matosas’s teammate Alonzo approached Steve on his less protected side. Even though all of Fonar was riding more or less together, the tightness of the peloton made it impossible to keep a strict formation around our leader.

  I noticed Alonzo’s arrival—the Italians’ green jerseys would set off alarms in me even if I were asleep—but his move didn’t necessarily mean anything hostile. Inside the peloton, the riders mix like strawberry seeds in a blender. I began to worry w
hen I realized Alonzo had stabilized his speed, staying right next to Steve, less than twenty centimeters away. I intuited what was coming: That bastard made a quick turn so that the part of the axle protruding from his back wheel hit the spokes on my friend’s bike, as if he were a gladiator in Ben-Hur.

  To break somebody’s wheel in the middle of a race is a desperate measure. Its success is not guaranteed, and the result can be deadly. Especially if it happens in the middle of the peloton. As soon as one axle hits another, it can cause one or both racers to lose their balance and start a chain of accidents with unpredictable consequences. And even if those involved manage to keep their balance, the broken spokes force an immediate replacement of the bikes.

  Clearly, Lavezza was willing to chance it, even if it meant sacrificing one of their teammates. Later, when I saw the scene on TV, I noticed the rest of the Italian team had moved to the front of the peloton before Alonzo made his hit. That way, they avoided the risk of being victims of a fall, and put themselves in position to attack as soon as it happened.

  But, once more, the gods of the road took pity on us and our misfortunes. Alonzo attacked Steve on his right side, his hurt side, and the impact caused my teammate to inadvertently fold his arm and twist the handlebars into the Italian’s way. Steve fell on top of Alonzo, right up front, and that’s what saved him from the slaughter unleashed in the back. The Beast, who rode behind Steve, and Alonzo himself got the worst of it. Without intending to, they served as a containment wall against the rest of the riders, who collided against them.

  When the incident unfolded I was riding on the other side of Steve. I had come up to ask him how he was feeling before we faced the slope. In that moment, I did what every racer does on sheer instinct when there’s a fall: You keep pedaling to escape the avalanche but slow down enough to see how bad the situation is.

  “Steve fell,” I screamed into my mic. “With about half the peloton,” I added after a pause. I later found out thirty racers had collapsed, although only a dozen were injured.