The Bastard is Dead

by D'arcy Kavanagh

  “It can be fun,” Burke admitted, although he knew “fun” wasn’t a word the riders would apply to any of the stages. “Brutal” and “exhausting” would be better descriptions.

  Henderson adopted a sorrowful expression. “Again, I’m sorry about what happened before, to you and your bike,” he said. “I was just plain stupid to do what I did. I hope you’re OK and your bike is working again.”

  “I am, and it is,” Burke said, smiling slightly.

  He was going to pedal off when a thought came to him.

  “I know anyone can have a heart attack, but doctors are getting better at diagnosing heart issues, right?” he asked.

  Henderson looked surprised at the turn in conversation, but his grin returned. “I think it’s safe to say the medical profession has made leaps and bounds in heart issue detection,” he said.

  “So it’s a little unusual for a healthy, active man who sees a doctor regularly to have a heart attack while doing something he does every day, right?” asked Burke, figuring McManus would never have been far from a doctor, considering his job.

  “I’m not so sure about that, although I can’t speak with any authority since I’m not a doctor, just a pharmacist,” Henderson said.

  “As a pharmacist, you probably deal with a lot of people with heart issues, I expect,” Burke suggested.

  “Yeah, lots. They use all kinds of meds. ACE inhibitors, antiplatelet drugs, beta-blockers, inotropic drugs, vasodilators and all kinds of other drugs,” he said. “Heart medications are becoming more sophisticated by the day. I have to work hard to keep up with the developments. Why? Do you have heart issues?”

  “No, no.” Burke shrugged. “Just wondering. Someone I knew died yesterday, supposedly of a heart attack. It was a total surprise to everyone. He was a beast of a man, and no one probably figured he’d go from a heart attack.”

  “Lots of people have undetected heart issues,” Henderson said. “Some pro football players have died on the field or just after a game from heart failure.”

  Burke nodded and thanked Henderson for the info. Then, with a slight wave, he started pedaling away, a little surprised by his own curiosity and still somewhat puzzled by how McManus just popped off without any warning.

  Back in old Villeneuve, Burke put aside his bike, showered, grabbed a chilled Kronenbourg 1664 and sat at his computer. He figured three or four hundred words on the race, plus McManus would keep his French blog editor, François Lemaire, in a happy mood.

  To his surprise, Burke found himself finished within a half hour. Usually a painfully slow writer in both French and English, the words flowed out of him as he passed on observations about the race and reported mostly about McManus.

  Now if he could only spell in either language.

  His screen had plenty of underlined words indicating misspellings. The autocorrect had helped somewhat, but his misspelling of other words had been so bad that autocorrect hadn’t known what to do.

  After cleaning up his copy, Burke emailed Lemaire, adding the blog as an attachment. He wished he had a photo of the race or of McManus, but he could usually rely on Lemaire to find some kind of art to add to the blog.

  He was sipping his second 1664 when he noticed a new email. It was from Lemaire, who had written:

  “Good work, PB. Timely. Excellent quotes about McManus. Took out part about doctors failing to diagnose a heart problem. Too much speculation. Or did you talk to his doctor?”

  Burke nodded to himself. He was prone to speculating too much, and he was glad Lemaire was a real journalist who caught such flaws in his copy.

  He emailed Lemaire back, saying he hadn’t talked to McManus’s doctor.

  Lemaire replied instantly, saying, “There’s a news conference tomorrow afternoon that will deal with the results of McManus’s autopsy and so forth. You should go. Info below.”

  The news conference was scheduled for 2 p.m. at the Nice City Hall.

  Burke told Lemaire he’d go.

  “Good,” Lemaire countered. “I’m assigning a reporter for the print news side. I want you to blog about the heart issue from a pro cyclist’s point of view. Had McManus damaged his heart from too much riding as a pro? Had he used drugs when he competed, and did that contribute to his death?”

  Burke nodded at the last sentence. There it was—drugs and cyclists. The longtime story that had plagued the sport for years. The pro cycling world had improved dramatically the last couple of years in reducing drug use, but the previous decades had been devastating. It hadn’t helped the sport’s image when some TDF winners had their titles stripped for drug use.

  Then Burke got a little ticked. McManus hadn’t been a rider when he died; he’d been a middle-aged man in a car. He’d ask Lemaire’s questions at the news conference, but he’d ask about other issues, too.

  Feeling he’d actually accomplished something, Burke left his apartment for Claude’s café.

  When he got down to Claude’s outdoor terrace, the TV was on and the TDF riders were in the last few kilometers. Burke was surprised that the terrace was two-thirds full; it usually had only a couple of customers at this time of day. There was a table with six tourists—their accents hinted they were from the southern United States—but they were ignoring the race, chattering away about the best way to get to nearby Grasse, the French capital for perfumes, from the new condo development a kilometer away. At another table, two local government officials who Burke had met a couple of times were sipping glasses of red wine as they studied the race, which looked destined to end in another sprint. At a table nearby sat a young couple from the village. They were locked on each other’s eyes, and Burke figured they’d soon be leaving for their bed. Then there was Madame Marois, who, as usual, was staring at her wall, a rosé within reach, Plato stretched out by her feet.

  Burke took a seat at a table for two beside Madame Marois.

  “Bonjour, Madame,” he said with a slight bow.

  The old woman glanced at him and tilted her head ever so slightly in acknowledgment. Then she returned to staring holes into the wall across the courtyard.

  Burke sat, knowing it would be impolite to ask Madame Marois how her day was. She was old-school French, uninterested in discussing her day or anything else with tourists or acquaintances. Burke sensed she’d be happy to keep her entire day’s conversation to just ordering a rosé. And then he recalled that she’d even mastered that without a sound, getting a glass from Claude with only the crook of a finger. She had trained him well. She’d probably trained others that way, too.

  Claude appeared at his table, his face flushed from having to bustle about with so many customers.

  “Pastis?” he asked.

  Burke was about to say yes but then changed his mind, ordering a Pelforth Brune, a malty, brown ale brewed in Marseille.

  “Ah, a surprise,” Claude said, grinning. “You are not always predictable, my friend.”

  “I try, Claude, I try,” Burke said, wondering how predictable he had become over the last few years.

  Claude then moved off, serving a variety of beers and wines to the American table before dispensing a bill to the amorous young couple.

  A few minutes later, Claude’s assistant, Hélène Rappaneau, who was twenty-two and also his niece, appeared with Burke’s beer, which looked delicious in a goblet-type glass.

  “Busier than normal, I see,” he said, stating the obvious but happy to do so because Hélène was a bubbly young woman and, with large almond-shaped eyes, rich auburn hair and an athletic figure, an absolute stunner.

  “That’s why my uncle called me in,” she said, studying the growing crowd as two well-dressed couples in their fifties came in together. “More and more people from the new condos.”

  “Then business is going to be good,” Burke suggested.

  Hélène laughed at that. “But Uncle Claude likes it quiet, I think. That way, he can spend more time talking to his few customers—as you know, Paul,” she said.

  “True,
true,” Burke replied.

  Then she was gone.

  Sipping his beer, Burke pondered the next day’s news conference. He had only attended news conferences as the teammate of the subject, never as a journalist. He figured he’d better prepare a few questions beforehand. He wasn’t the quickest person on his feet, and he didn’t want to look the fool.

  “Stupid people there,” came a weedy voice beside him. “They know nothing. Nothing.”

  To his surprise, it was Madame Marois talking. The strange part was she was not addressing anyone. She was just staring ahead and muttering away.

  She stretched out a thin arm and waved something invisible away.

  “So stupid,” she said and then was silent.

  Burke was concerned. He had known her—seen her would be a more accurate description, he thought—for more than two years and had never seen her talk in such a way.

  “Madame Marois, are you all right?” he ventured.

  It was like she hadn’t heard him. He repeated his question.

  Slowly, she turned her head to stare at him, her eyes hard and her lips squeezed together.

  “Your accent is not very pleasant,” she said.

  “My accent?” said Burke, surprised.

  “Yes, you speak like you have no education. Maybe you are a foreigner,” she said, nodding to herself.

  “I live here, but I am from Québec—in Canada,” he said.

  “Stupid!” she said in a snarl. “I know where Québec is.”

  By this time, Claude had come over, having spotted the awkward exchange. He caught Burke’s attention. Burke shrugged.

  “Are you feeling well, Madame?” Burke asked.

  “I’m fine if you’d leave me alone,” she said, her head swiveling back to her usual view of the stone wall.

  Burke gave up. “I’m sorry if I have bothered you. I just wanted to make sure you are feeling well.”

  The old woman shook her head, brought up her rosé and took a sip. She was obviously done with Burke. He glanced up at Claude with a look that silently asked if he had encountered Madame Marois in this state before.

  “Life is a puzzle, my friend,” Claude said to Burke, who nodded. The café owner then moved to visit with the newcomers.

  The two government workers caught everyone’s attention when they yelled “Merde!” in unison as the English sprinter beat a Frenchman to victory in the day’s TDF race.

  Burke didn’t care about the stage winner.

  He finished his beer, glanced at Madame Marois, who was once again a still-life figure, and then went inside to pay his bill.

  “You’re leaving so soon?” asked Hélène.

  “Too busy for me,” Burke said with a smile.

  The truth was that Madame Marois’s small outburst had bothered him. She’d sounded angry—not at him, but at something.

  He didn’t want any of her grief or pain to rub off on him.

  BURKE PUT ASIDE HIS bike and drove his old Citroën to the news conference the next day. He’d dressed up somewhat, wearing pleated black slacks and a gray sports jacket. With newly shined black shoes and a white, collarless linen shirt, he thought he looked relatively professional.

  The news conference was in a large meeting room, and when he arrived, there were already twenty members of the media in the room. Half sat in chairs; the others stood behind TV cameras.

  Burke looked around for the print reporter Lemaire had sent. He spotted him in an aisle seat and went over, sitting beside him.

  Marc Boutillier acknowledged Burke with a smile. He was an affable young man, maybe twenty-five, not long out of university, a studious sort who wrote well and, by Lemaire’s estimation, would be moving on to bigger and better things in no time.

  They chatted for a few minutes. Neither had heard anything more about the cause of McManus’s death.

  Soon, a parade of a half dozen individuals entered the room, in which the media had doubled. A short, stocky man and a tall, willowy woman wore white lab coats. The other four—all men—sported dark suits. Everyone looked glum.

  The first speaker turned out to be a representative of the World Professional Cycling Federation, which ran the world’s major pro cycling races. He explained that the two doctors present would make brief comments. But first, he introduced the vice president of the WPCF.

  His name was Jean-Guy Brandenheim, and with that mix of French and German names, Burke figured he came from the Alsace section of France where there was often a blending of names thanks to control of the region switching between France and Germany over the centuries.

  The VP’s comments, however, were hardly bizarre. He expressed his and his organization’s sorrow for the loss of the legendary McManus. A stage later in this year’s TDF would be dedicated to the great man.

  VP Brandenheim turned it back to the host, who ushered the short doctor to the lectern. According to him, the cause of death could now be officially declared as sudden cardiac arrest, which, he explained, was different from a myocardial infarction—a heart attack, in layman’s terms. The latter is caused by the blocking of blood, and therefore oxygen, to the heart. Apparently, the heart can keep beating, and often, a victim survives the attack. However, during sudden cardiac arrest the heart stops beating altogether, which in turn stops blood flowing to the brain and other vital organs. The doctor said the result is usually fatal. He added that sudden cardiac arrest can happen in people who seem healthy and do not have any known heart disease issues.

  “His heart simply could not keep up with the workload he placed on it,” he explained.

  The doctor then launched into detailed medical descriptions that hurt Burke’s head. When Burke looked around, he saw that most of the journalists seemed equally lost. They wanted simpler language.

  Someone asked if McManus’s job might have played a part in the fatal attack. The doctor shrugged and said that stressful occupations can be hard on a person’s physical and emotional well-being. Burke rolled his eyes at that one. Stress was bad for you? Hardly news.

  Another journalist asked if McManus’s condition had been known. The host jumped in and said, “No,” then glanced at the two physicians, who both shook their heads, confirming this answer.

  A reporter a few rows up wondered aloud if McManus’s team had conducted proper physical examinations of its managerial staff.

  In response, a small man approached the podium and introduced himself as Wayne Lavalley, director of sponsorship marketing for McManus’s team.

  “Every member of our cycling team staff receives a medical exam,” he said in a high-pitched voice. “Mr. McManus showed absolutely no signs of having any health issues on any front.”

  The questions continued to focus on how McManus could have held such a job with a ticking time bomb in his chest. The cycling federation rep, the marketing director and the doctors took turns batting back answers that seemed reasonable to Burke, but didn’t seem to satisfy most of the media there.

  Burke remembered Lemaire’s suggested line of questioning and stuck up his hand like a kid in school. The tall doctor pointed at him, prompting him to ask his question.

  Burke stood and looked about. The volume in the room dropped somewhat as he spoke. “Is there any indication that Monsieur McManus doped when he was a rider, and if so, did that have anything to do with his heart attack?” he asked, hearing his own voice quiver with nerves.

  The doctor smiled at him the way a teacher does at a small child who’s conquered a task. “No, no physical evidence,” she said. “And to be accurate, it was sudden cardiac arrest, not a myocardial infarction.”

  Burke mumbled, “Sorry,” in response to the doctor’s correction.

  Beside him, Marc Boutillier followed up with a related question: “Is there any record anywhere—maybe within the cycling organization—that suggests or points to McManus having used illegal substances?”

  The two doctors both turned to VP Brandenheim, who, for the first time, looked fully engaged in the Q and A
.

  “I cannot say we have such information indicating that,” said Brandenheim, frowning. “The passing of Pierre McManus isn’t a doping story. It’s a tragic story about a man who contributed enormously to our sport. Don’t make the story something it isn’t.”

  Burke grimaced and looked at Boutillier, who looked newly energized.

  The follow-up questions zeroed in on Brandenheim’s response, and soon, the reporters were implying that maybe the WPCF had drug test records that related to the McManus case but weren’t being released.

  As the session got more confrontational, Burke found himself losing interest. The journalists wanted the truth, but they seemed to want a truth that would sell.

  The news conference began to wind down. Some TV crews were packing and leaving. A couple of the suits that were at the podium had somehow disappeared.

  Burke stuck up his hand for a second question. The host pointed to him.

  “Do the police have anything to say about McManus’s death?” he asked.

  The host shook his head in disgust. Brandenheim jumped in. “It was a heart attack, nothing more,” he said. Then he glanced at the two doctors. “Sorry, sudden cardiac arrest. Now, leave the man’s legacy in peace.”

  And with that, the news conference ended.

  Boutillier looked at Burke. “Interesting question,” he said. “What made you think about that?”

  “I figured I should ask at least one more question. Besides, a bunch of the questions mentioned drug use. That’s illegal. That means the police might have been involved.”

  Boutillier nodded. “Yet no one was here from the police, or at least not that I noticed,” he said. “Maybe we should give them a quick call. Better yet, let’s go over and talk to them. I’ve got the time.”

  “Me too.”

  Ten minutes later, they were explaining to a desk cop that they wanted to talk to someone in authority about the recent death of Pierre McManus. Boutillier waved a press card to show he was legit. Burke fumbled around to show he had one somewhere. Before he ran out of places to search, the cop got on the phone.

  “Wait there,” he said after hanging up, pointing toward a bench behind them.