The Bastard is Dead

by D'arcy Kavanagh

  “I think our Madame Marois is starting to feel her age, if you know what I mean,” Claude said.

  The old woman lifted her purse arm and jabbed the index finger upward, as if she had just remembered something. And with that, she turned from the square and continued down the stairs and out of sight.

  “I think Madame might need some watching over,” Claude said. “Too bad her children live so far away, although I’m not sure it would matter.”

  “What do you mean?” Burke asked.

  Claude scanned the area. No one was coming. He had time.

  “Many years ago, after she first moved here, Madame told me about her two children,” Claude said. He folded his hands on his ample stomach. Burke knew the pose—it was storytelling time.

  “She does not advertise she has children, although she did mention it to those Good Samaritans the other day when they helped her find her car keys at the café,” Claude continued. “I believe it’s because they’re estranged from her. The daughter, as I told you before, lives in Vancouver. As for the son, he got into trouble in the 1968 Paris riots, and when everything died down, he left the country and apparently lives in Vienna. At least that’s what Madame told me.”

  Burke did some calculations. That would put the son in his late fifties at the youngest. More likely, he’d be in his sixties.

  Claude scratched his chin.

  “I think the son actually spent time in prison because of something that happened during the riots,” he said. “Attacking a flic maybe. Madame wasn’t specific, just hinted he had confronted the police and wound up in jail. She was also annoyed with him for having drugs another time.”

  “And the daughter?” Burke said.

  Claude shook his head. “No idea, except that Madame mentioned she was an idealist. She seemed disgusted, as if that was a terrible thing.”

  Burke was surprised how interested he was in Madame’s story. Maybe it was because of seeing her in Grasse or having just witnessed the old woman’s fragility a few minutes before.

  Burke asked about Madame’s husband.

  “She told me he died years ago before she came here,” Claude said. “He was some kind of businessman in Paris. He must have done well, because I’ve never noticed Madame lacking the better things in life. For example, when she comes here, she always orders the best wine. And her shoes, according to my ex-wife, are usually Christian Louboutin or something like that. Very fancy, very expensive. And you’ll see her wearing Hermès accessories and some Versace clothes.”

  “How do you know about fashion?” Burke asked, surprised by the café owner’s unknown interest.

  Claude laughed. “Through my ex-wife Jeanne,” he said. “She liked to imagine a life in which she could afford high fashion, and so she was always studying what Madame Marois was wearing. To me, it’s always been the same—black, black and more black—but Jeanne knew what was what. I think Hélène does, too. She likes to serve Madame just so she can look at what clothes and accessories she’s wearing.”

  “So she just spends her days getting through her days,” Burke suggested.

  “I like that way of describing it,” Claude said. “You are a writer in training. I also believe you’re correct about Madame Marois. I think she’ll soon be a different person—and not a better one—and that will be sad. There’s no joy in getting old, but it’s a fact of life that it awaits us all. Most of us, anyway.”

  “You’re still young at heart, Claude,” Burke said with a grin.

  Claude nodded and slapped his chest. “I am. Yes, I am.”

  Two well-dressed couples in their thirties came around the corner and over to Claude’s terrace. The man in front pointed from Claude to a distant table. Claude nodded, then stood.

  As the foursome walked to the table, Claude bent down to Burke.

  “I would wager they are from one of our new condo resorts,” Claude said. “If they spend some money on good wine and a fine meal, then I will admit there are some advantages to these resorts coming in. Money over idealism, you see?”

  Claude laughed and took a couple of steps toward his new guests. He turned back to Burke and pointed at the Perrier on the table.

  “And that is just not right, my friend. It will kill you.”

  BURKE AWOKE AT JUST after 6 a.m. the next day with more energy than he’d had in months, maybe even years. He wasn’t sure why, but he took advantage of it by going out for a snappy one-hour ride around the Cap d’Antibes.

  Back home, he polished off a new blog, focusing on how the world was looking differently at the TDF thanks to the deaths of McManus and Den Weent. He had to admit that he’d hardly covered new territory with the blog, but he felt that his phrasing—and passion—had never been better.

  Then, still enjoying his spurt of creativity, he wrote his column, in which he expressed hope that the world would be able to look beyond the deaths and still see the TDF as the magnificent sporting event it was. He smiled, leaving out some of the event’s dubious past, such as champions being stripped of their titles because of drug usage. Blemishes on the TDF’s record aside, he truly thought it was a great race and hoped it would regain its old luster.

  Finally, he treated himself to breakfast. It was just a coffee and two croissants, but he enjoyed it enormously. The day was feeling good.

  His cell phone rang.

  It was Lemaire.

  His editor was his usual laconic self and mentioned how he liked both Burke’s blog and his column.

  “There’s nothing new in what you said, but the way you said it shows me you’re developing some real writing skills and you’re bringing a little more depth to your observations,” Lemaire said.

  “I must be getting smarter,” Burke replied. “That’s good. I was worried I might still be dumb.”

  Lemaire laughed and reminded Burke about his first lesson in doing a video blog.

  “And I think it’s appropriate if you learn by actually doing a real one,” the editor added.

  Lemaire said they should meet in an hour at the eastern entrance to the Old Town in Antibes.

  “Bring a copy of your blog with you, Paul,” Lemaire added. “That’s what you’ll work off. If you can memorize it from now till then, even better.”

  “What should I wear?” Burke asked, feeling a little embarrassed.

  Lemaire paused and then said, “Ride down on your bike and wear some cycling clothes, although nothing too promotional.”

  Burke agreed.

  He showed up a few minutes before the designated time. He put his bike against a palm tree and studied the view—a busy marina, a stone parapet jutting into the sea, the turquoise of the Mediterranean and the dark blue of the Maritime Alps in the distance. He had been in this spot dozens of times, and he was always impressed.

  Lemaire showed up soon after. He got out of his car, along with a huge, bearded man in his mid-thirties who had to weigh 150 kilograms, not comprised of muscle. The massive man had a camera bag with him.

  “This is Antoine Pastore,” Lemaire said, introducing the man beside him.

  “Hello,” Antoine said in a soft voice.

  Burke’s hand disappeared in Antoine’s when they shook. Fortunately, the huge man had a mild handshake.

  They sat on a nearby bench, and Antoine took over, showing Burke two cameras—one a digital SLR with plenty of video capacity. The other was an amazingly light video unit that, as a sideline, could shoot stills. Antoine showed the basics of both and then showed how to set up both on a tripod.

  Then Antoine, who was clearly enthusiastic about the topic, got into tougher terrain, explaining how to use the settings for maximum effect. He talked about automatic versus manual, ISO, white balance, JPEGs and other aspects that made Burke’s head swim.

  “OK, I can see I am beginning to hurt you, Paul,” Antoine said with a smile.

  He then suggested Paul speak on his topic for about thirty seconds. Antoine would film it, and then they’d check it out.

  “You
should be OK at this, I think,” he said.

  “Really? What makes you say that?” Burke asked.

  “You’ve been on TV before, as I recall,” Antoine said, his smile turning into a playful grin.

  Burke shrugged. “Ah, yes, my reputation.”

  Except for bumbling two words, Burke managed a usable first take. On the second, he was flawless, if a little stiff. On the third, he added a little more passion. Lemaire and Antoine loved it.

  They spent another half hour working on improving the lighting and sound. Then they talked about how Burke would deliver the video. To his surprise, Burke found himself enjoying the process.

  “Antoine, film that boat coming in,” Lemaire suddenly said, pointing to an enormous yacht sliding into the marina.

  Antoine did as ordered, using the small video unit.

  “Why do you want me to shoot it?”

  “I think that boat belongs to Yves Vachon,” Lemaire replied. “I’ve seen it before. He’s a big one for sailing about the Med. It wouldn’t hurt to get a little video and a few still shots. Vachon is stirring up a lot of shit these days.”

  Lemaire took the digital SLR and jogged across to the marina. Antoine followed. Burke figured he might as well join them, so he grabbed his bike and brought up the rear.

  The sleek yacht was about twice the size of most of the other boats. It was gleaming white except for blue and red striping on the hull. Its name was La Gloire, or The Glory in English. It seemed an odd name to Burke.

  On board, three men dressed in light blue T-shirts and khaki trousers directed the yacht to its mooring.

  “I wonder if Vachon is on board,” Lemaire said.

  “He’s not,” Burke said, pointing to two men leaning against a parked black Mercedes sedan. “He’s there.”

  Lemaire grabbed his notebook and jogged over toward the car. Vachon, who was wearing gray espadrilles, gray slacks and a short-sleeved white shirt, spotted the oncoming Lemaire and stood straight. The other man stepped in front of Vachon. He was tall, broad-shouldered and very capable looking despite wearing a businesslike black suit with a white shirt and blue tie.

  Lemaire dropped to a fast walk. He cracked a smile, and Burke could hear him begin to introduce himself as he got closer to Vachon.

  The other man took three steps toward Lemaire and held out a warning hand.

  “Monsieur Vachon is busy and does not wish to talk to anyone,” the man said in an even voice.

  Lemaire slowed his approach but still continued forward. “Is that right, Monsieur Vachon?” he asked. “I just want to ask a couple of questions.”

  Vachon smiled his Hollywood smile and pointed to the oncoming yacht and shrugged. “We’re busy,” he said.

  Lemaire took another step and made to go around the other man, who reacted by extending an arm against Lemaire’s chest.

  “Hey, screw off!” Lemaire said.

  When he tried to go around again, the man in the suit barely moved his arm, but it resulted in Lemaire grabbing his stomach and falling to his knees, gasping for air. The man had punched him in the solar plexus.

  “I told you,” he said, standing over Lemaire.

  Then he backed up.

  Antoine rushed toward the man in the suit. A moment later, he, too, was rolling on the ground, only he’d been kicked in the kneecap. While Lemaire was gasping, Antoine was groaning in pain.

  The man in the suit looked at Burke, who’d made up his mind to stay a good distance away.

  Vachon shook his head in disgust at the two men on the ground.

  “It would be wise to leave,” he said. “We do not wish to have you prosecuted for assault, whoever you are.”

  Burke figured that last bit was to avoid possible trouble down the line. Vachon was suggesting his bodyguard had attacked some strange man who had run at them. Lemaire hadn’t identified himself as a member of the press, although the minder didn’t give him much of a chance to do so.

  Vachon didn’t wait for a response from either Lemaire or Antoine. Instead, he turned and walked toward his yacht, which was being tied up to the dock by his staff. His expressionless minder took up a position behind him, but kept an eye on Burke and the two men on the ground.

  Antoine was now sitting upright and rubbing his left knee where he’d been kicked. Burke went to Lemaire and instructed him to stretch out. Then he folded Lemaire’s legs and drove them back and forth a couple of times into Lemaire’s chest. That got the editor’s lungs working together. After a couple of hesitant breaths, Lemaire seemed recovered.

  Burke turned back to Antoine. “How’s the knee?” As a former pro cyclist, Burke had seen a lot of leg injuries.

  “I don’t think anything’s really damaged, but it sure hurt when he kicked me,” Antoine said. “It happened so fast. I wasn’t going to hit him. I was just going to tell him to back off.”

  Burke had a feeling that Antoine couldn’t have hit the minder even if he’d wanted to. Vachon’s man was obviously a professional bodyguard, maybe ex-military.

  “That tells us something about Monsieur Vachon,” Lemaire said, slowly getting to his knees. He was grimacing and holding his stomach. He didn’t look well, but Burke expected he’d recover soon enough.

  “Asshole!” Lemaire grunted, straightening up.

  “Bastard!” added Antoine.

  The three of them watched as Vachon and his man walked onto the gangway and then onto his yacht. There was some shaking of hands. Vachon turned and pointed at Lemaire, Antoine and Burke, shaking his head and looking disgusted. The head of FP Developments was a showman. It was all about appearances.

  Burke suggested they retire to a café to recover. He said a glass of wine or a good beer would help.

  Lemaire wasn’t interested.

  “I’m going back to the office, and I will talk to the police,” he said. “If nothing else, I want it on the record what he did.”

  “Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Burke asked.

  After all, as far as Burke could see, there had been no other witnesses. If there had been, they had disappeared. So, it was Lemaire’s word—plus Burke’s and Antoine’s—against Vachon and his man. He doubted Lemaire would get much understanding from the police.

  “He can’t simply have his man beat someone up whenever he wishes,” Lemaire said.

  The color was returning to Lemaire’s face, and he was obviously feeling a good dose of righteous indignation.

  “You didn’t really identify yourself, and that might be an issue,” Burke said.

  Lemaire nodded. “That’s true, I didn’t, but his dog didn’t give me a chance.” He paused, and Burke could see him weighing the situation. “Maybe there’s not much hope for me to get some revenge, but there is the paper.”

  Burke said nothing. Lemaire’s face pinched in concentration.

  “I know, I know, I’ll have to be careful,” he told Burke. “Vachon is a bully—a well-dressed one, but a bully nevertheless. We French are a revolutionary people, and we don’t take such an attitude very well.”

  His speech over, Lemaire motioned toward Antoine, and they left.

  Burke grabbed his bike as Lemaire and Antoine disappeared into the heavy traffic heading toward the Old Town. He turned to see what Vachon was up to. The head of FP Developments was no longer visible, and the boat was well away from the dock and starting to pick up speed.

  It was only just approaching lunchtime, and it had already been a busy day.

  He wondered what the afternoon might bring.

  AFTER THE SCUFFLE INVOLVING Lemaire, Antoine and Vachon’s man, Burke needed to blow off some energy. So, he decided to ride to the Old Town in Nice as hard as he could go and then reward himself with lunch afterward.

  The distance was not quite twenty kilometers, and despite some heavy traffic, Burke covered it in just over a half hour. It helped that the wind had been behind him, but Burke sensed he was getting fitter by the day.

  By the time he got off the bike and was ready to wa
lk through the archway into the Old Town, he was feeling more relaxed. The biggest surprise to Burke, though, was how much more sharply his brain seemed to be working these days. Maybe it was the exercise and a slightly better diet. Or maybe it was all the excitement around McManus and Den Weent. It could also have been because Lemaire was challenging him to do more and to do better. Regardless, Burke felt a little more attuned to events around him.

  It hit him that he was starting to grow up. After retiring, he hadn’t done much, acting more like a twenty-year-old without any interests beyond catching some sun, drinking some pastis, watching TV and chasing women.

  What a waste those years had been. For the most part anyway.

  Besides re-examining what had happened in the last week, Burke decided he needed to put together some kind of plan for how he was going to start living from now on. He needed a steadier income if he wanted to stay in the region. He needed to drink less and exercise more. And if he met someone nice, he needed to be more mature.

  Burke stopped at a small café along a winding lane in the Old Town. It was one of his favorite spots, and he ordered a full plate of grilled anchovies, plus a bottle of water. The grilled anchovies weren’t the wisest meal for someone trying to improve his diet, but they were so damned tasty that Burke figured he could give himself a break now and then.

  He grabbed a spot at one of the tiny tables by the takeout window and settled in to watch the action; since it was a market day and just past noon, there was plenty to see. Still, Burke found his mind drifting back to the marina in Antibes. He had never been involved in anything like that before, and it had shaken him.

  Burke looked down and discovered his anchovies had disappeared. He had eaten them all without noticing. His water was almost totally gone, too.

  He took it as a signal to do something else. He got up, grabbed his bike and rode over to André Rousseau’s bike shop to see if his friend had any new gear. If nothing else, Burke figured he’d get a couple of water bottles since his old ones hadn’t been washed out and were likely inhabited by all manner of bacteria.

  It took just ten minutes to get to Rousseau’s shop. Although he was French in virtually every way, Rousseau didn’t shut his store for lunch, so Burke walked right in, wheeling his bike beside him.