The Bastard is Dead

by D'arcy Kavanagh

  Burke loved Villefranche almost as much as he loved his home village. A town of 6,500, Villefranche was embedded into a steep hill that rose from a beautiful bay to the Moyenne Corniche, a road that climbed east to Èze and then Monaco.

  As he rode through the new part of Villefranche, Burke looked down at the bay, which was dotted with sailboats and, at that moment, being visited by a massive cruise ship. He remembered the first time he’d seen this picturesque community. It was on TV; he and his parents had been watching the movie Dirty Rotten Scoundrels with Steve Martin and Michael Caine. He’d thought the region was so beautiful that he’d like to visit it one day. His dream had come true.

  Burke turned off the main road and went up a steep switchback through a residential section. It was tough cycling, but Burke was loving it. He was slowly getting back into form, and he liked how his body was beginning to feel.

  Soon, he was on the Moyenne Corniche and flying toward Éze, a small village that offered one of the best views of the entire Mediterranean coast of France. Once there, he stopped to watch a couple of busloads of tourists enter the Fragonard parfumerie, which attracted visitors from around the world. Then he turned and headed back the way he had come.

  He covered the return trip to Nice in a third of the time, plunging down the descent at speeds up to eighty kilometers per hour. Back in Nice, sweating heavily but feeling better than he’d felt in months, Burke cycled to Rousseau’s shop.

  “Are you coming to buy something today, Paul?” Rousseau said when Burke walked into the shop, which was busy with customers.

  Burke laughed. “I am, André. The heart monitor I was looking at the other day. That one there,” he said, pointing at the item in a display box on the counter.

  “Good selection,” Rousseau replied.

  Burke told his friend to attend to the other customers while he looked around.

  “All right, but please don’t stink up my shop too much,” Rousseau said. “You’ve been riding hard, it seems.”

  Rousseau moved to a couple checking out some carbon-frame racing bikes, the cheapest of which probably cost two thousand euros.

  Burke put his bike against a wall and poked around. Rousseau carried quality stuff for the pro rider and good gear for the amateur. Burke checked out the latest edition of an electronic shifting system he had heard about. It looked heavy, but then he picked up the main component and was surprised how light it was. The price tag was high enough that he put it back.

  “It’s a good piece of equipment,” came a voice beside him.

  It was Petit, who was rubbing some cleaner cream on his hands. Petit nodded at the system. “Soon, everyone will be using this,” he said.

  “Well, I think I’ll keep what I’ve got on my bike for a while yet,” Burke said.

  “Sounds like the thinking of some pro teams I know,” Petit said. “They’re afraid of change and refuse to use the latest technology or new training methods, or even new ways of massage.”

  “It sounds like you keep up with changes,” Burke said, surprised at how chatty the mechanic was today.

  “I work hard to be current with equipment, nutrition, massage and homeopathic remedies. I could work as a soigneur if I wanted.”

  Burke couldn’t tell if Petit was boasting, because the man didn’t show much expression. If what Petit was saying was true, he had some strong skills. Burke couldn’t recall hearing of anyone who had the knowledge to be both a mechanic and a soigneur—someone who works with riders on their physical well-being during competition.

  “You could do a few jobs on a team,” Burke suggested.

  “And I have. I’ve done massage at times, when my mechanical duties were complete or when a soigneur was ill. I’ve also worked with the team chef on introducing high quality nutritional aides.”

  “You’re a busy man,” Burke said, starting to feel that Petit could be a little overbearing once he started talking. On top of that, the man seemed to be devoid of a sense of humor.

  “I like to stay busy, and that’s why I’m here. I could wait till the Global situation has been sorted and not work until it is, but that’s not my way.”

  “No family to keep you busy?”

  “No, just my mother, and she keeps herself busy with her work,” he replied.

  “Yes, I met her at McManus’s funeral,” Burke said. “By the way, she seemed to know McManus.”

  “She only knew him a little. She was there to show support for me. I better get back to work, or Rousseau will get angry.”

  Burke shrugged and watched Petit return to the back shop where repairs were done. Then he went to the counter and paid Rousseau for the heart monitor.

  He rode easily out of Nice and toward Villeneuve-Loubet. He wondered if he was losing any weight with his new program. Probably too early for decent results.

  A kilometer from home, he saw three police cars and a police van speed by. They seemed to be heading into the area with all the new condo developments and resorts.

  “It’s getting to be a noisy neighborhood,” he told himself as he took the turn to his village.

  BURKE WATCHED THE EVENING news and learned the reason for the speeding police vehicles he had seen—there had been a protest at the new FP Developments work site, and it had gotten violent. The report said several protesters were arrested after scuffling with security personnel for the company and then with the police. No one was injured, but the reporter quoted the police saying there had been “the potential for real violence.”

  As for FP Developments, a spokesperson for the company said in one video clip: “There were members of the protest group who wanted nothing more than to cause trouble. We haven’t even started real work on the site because we are awaiting final approval on some permits, and yet these people were there to create chaos. There is a system involved here, and we are playing by the rules. Those protestors don’t care about such matters.”

  Burke noticed in the clip that among the journalists surrounding the spokesperson was François Lemaire, his editor.

  Another clip included brief comments from a couple of protesters, who complained that security staff had originated the problem by demanding the protesters leave even though they were not on FP Developments property.

  Burke wondered if Claude had been involved. He expected he had been.

  He called Lemaire at work to get details.

  “I’m busy, Paul, so I can’t give you much time,” Lemaire said.

  “Who started it?” Burke asked.

  “I was there right from the start, and the FP Developments’ thugs got a little heavy with some of the protesters, probably under Vachon’s orders.”

  “How did you know when it was going to start?” Burke asked.

  “Protesters rarely conduct a protest without alerting the media. If there’s no coverage, what’s the point?” replied Lemaire. “Once the media showed up, the protestors got busy, even though the only work being done on the site these days is leveling the ground, since final construction permits haven’t been approved. I expect their efforts will be on the evening news tonight. If that’s the case, they got what they wanted—exposure. We’re definitely running a story, too.”

  “Do you know a café owner from here, a middle-aged guy named Claude Brière? His place is the Café de Neptune.”

  “I know him. I’ve had some excellent meals and wines at his place, and I’ve interviewed him as part of the fight against FP Developments’ new project,” Lemaire said.

  “Was he there today?”

  “At the protest? Oh, yes. Claude was a ringleader and right in the middle of all the pushing and shoving,” Lemaire said. “In fact, I think he might have punched one of the FP Developments workers.”

  Claude would have been a load to move, even if his weight was not all muscle. He figured Claude, with his beefy arms and huge hands, could do some damage with a punch.

  “And he’s one of the protesters who got arrested,” Lemaire added.

  Burke shook
his head and asked how long Claude might spend in jail.

  “It depends on what he’s been charged with,” Lemaire told him. “He could be out now, or he might be in overnight—or longer. It depends.”

  “One last question?”

  “OK, but make it a short one.”

  “Was Vachon there?”

  “Not that I could see,” Lemaire told him. “I would’ve been surprised if he had been there. He does his work in boardrooms. Now I’ve got to go. By the way, you need to get me a couple of blogs soon, right? And start preparing for that forum you’re doing in a couple of days.”

  “I will.”

  Burke went to the Café de Neptune to see if Claude was there.

  He wasn’t.

  But Hélène was and gave Burke an enormous smile when she spotted him. She couldn’t stop though, because the terrace was busy once again with nonlocals, and she and an unfamiliar young woman were the only servers. Burke decided he’d grab a quick pastis and hope for a lull in the action.

  The other woman who was serving came over to Burke and asked what he’d like. About the same age as Hélène, she seemed like someone who had done this kind of work before.

  Burke peered around the woman’s shoulder to see if he should wait for Hélène.

  “Ah, you must be Paul,” the woman said with a finger pointed at him and a sly smile.

  “I am,” he said. “How do you know me?”

  The woman, who was petite with a thin, pretty face and short black hair, nodded toward Hélène. “Someone told me what you look like,” she said. “I’m Marie, Hélène’s friend. Hélène asked me to help because her uncle is in jail and the other server is ill. I’ve done lots of this work before, and so I said yes.”

  “I heard Claude had been arrested. Is he still in jail?”

  “He’s still there, or he was when we last heard,” Marie said.

  Hélène appeared with a pastis and nudged her friend with her elbow.

  “I see you’ve met,” she said, placing the pastis before Burke. “Paul, I’m sorry, but tonight is crazy, thanks to my uncle getting himself locked up.”

  “I understand,” Burke said. He felt like a schoolboy with a terrible crush on the girl next door, but he didn’t care; she was special. “I just came down to check on your uncle—and to see if you were around.”

  “Maybe we can meet tomorrow,” Hélène said. “By then, I hope Uncle Claude will be out of jail.”

  The two women went back to work. Burke took his time with the pastis, partly so he could watch Hélène and partly to think about Claude. After almost an hour, he paid and left, getting a quick wave from both Hélène and Marie as he turned to go home.

  Back in his apartment, Burke checked Twitter and then some news sites to see if there was any update on the protest. There wasn’t.

  He turned on the TV and watched a movie—The Horseman on the Roof—but he had trouble focusing, even though it featured one of his favorite actresses, Juliette Binoche, who looked like a slightly older version of Hélène. When it ended, he could only recall that a lot of people had died from cholera and there had been a great deal of horseback riding. It was likely a good movie and worth viewing another time when his mind wasn’t drifting.

  After the credits rolled, he went to bed, but he couldn’t sleep. Too many thoughts and too many images. He lay sweating on his sheets and wondered what was happening to Claude and what might happen with Hélène. At about three in the morning, he drifted off.

  THE NEXT DAY, BURKE checked the papers and internet for any mention of Claude, but he found nothing. He called Hélène, waking her, but she hadn’t heard that her uncle would be released. She said she was going to the police station to check on him and asked if Burke wanted to come along.

  “Absolutely,” Burke said. He was as interested in being with Hélène as he was in seeing how Claude was managing.

  Shortly after they hung up, Burke got a call from the organizer of the forum coming up the following day. The organizer provided details about when Burke should show up for the sound check and how he should dress—a sports jacket, a tie only if he wanted and absolutely no stripes. Then the organizer gave the format—three hours with six panelists—and told Burke what he’d be expected to contribute.

  “It should be very easy for you,” he told Burke. “There will be discussion of the changes in the sport, from the technology to the biological passport.”

  “I’m just a little worried that it could become a complete attack on cycling,” Burke said.

  “Well, there have been some rough times these last few years, but I expect you and the other panelists will be able to discuss how the sport is lifting itself out of that difficult period.”

  Burke wasn’t so sure, but he had committed to participating, and so he went along, ending the call soon after.

  An hour later, he buzzed Hélène in her apartment, and she came out, her hair wet from the shower. She wasn’t wearing makeup, but then, she didn’t need any. In her usual loose cotton blouse and linen skirt, she was striking.

  She greeted him with a gentle kiss on the lips that made Burke tingle.

  The main police station was busy. For several years, Burke had lived in the area but hadn’t a clue where the station was. Now he was becoming a regular visitor.

  Burke wondered if Claude’s case was more for the Gendarmerie Nationale, since the protest had occurred not in Nice, but in a smaller area. He couldn’t recall what the news reports had said, but figured he’d find out soon.

  “You again,” came a voice that was becoming familiar.

  Burke turned and looked at Jean-Pierre Fortin. Not surprisingly, his sergeant, Sylvie Côté, was beside him.

  “This is becoming part of my routine,” Burke said, adding a smile that was not returned.

  “And why are you here today? Still interested in the McManus death?” Fortin asked.

  “Not this time,” Burke replied.

  “Good. Nothing new in his case anyway,” Fortin said.

  “I’m here to ask about Claude Brière, who was arrested at that riot yesterday at the FP Developments work site in Villeneuve-Loubet,” Burke said. “Was he brought here? Or is he elsewhere?”

  “I’m not entirely involved in the case, but he’s here because the matter involves more than the jurisdiction of the Gendarmerie.”

  Burke, who wasn’t entirely clear on the various jurisdictions within the French police system, sensed Fortin had wanted to say something negative about the Gendarmerie but had thought better of being critical.

  Burke looked at Hélène. He’d been doing the talking, but Claude was her uncle, her family, and maybe she should take control. However, she looked at him and seemed fine to leave the questioning to Burke.

  “Just check at the counter there,” Fortin said. And with that, he and Côté walked out of the building.

  Burke went to a counter manned by a burly cop in his forties. Burke asked for Claude and mentioned his friend had been arrested in the protest yesterday.

  “Are you family?” the cop asked.

  Burke nodded at Hélène. “She is. She’s his niece. Is Claude going to be released soon?” Burke asked.

  The cop looked at a computer screen, punched in something and then turned to Hélène.

  “As it turns out, he will be released in fifteen minutes,” he said. “You can wait over there.”

  He pointed to a couple of benches. Half the seats were taken.

  Burke and Hélène sat down, but they didn’t talk. He could sense her discomfort. In fact, she looked frightened. Burke attempted a distraction; he told her about the last time he was here—when he had come asking for the latest on the death of Pierre McManus.

  “How did he die?” she asked.

  “His heart suddenly stopped, but I get the sense from our friend Fortin that there might have been more to his death than that,” Burke explained.

  “Like what?”

  “I really don’t know, but maybe someone initiate
d what happened to him.”

  “I don’t understand,” Hélène said.

  “Maybe someone gave him a drug that caused it, but I’m just guessing here.”

  “Was he the type of man someone would want to see dead?” Helene asked, starting to take more interest.

  “He was hardly a monster, but he was difficult and could be mean—even cruel,” Burke said. “He had a reputation as a good tactician in races and a miserable bastard otherwise.”

  A familiar laugh sounded. “So what kind of trouble are you both in now?” asked Claude with a grin.

  Hélène jumped up and hugged her uncle. When she was finished, she wagged a finger in front of him.

  “You cannot do this to me again,” she scolded. Then she softened. “It hurts my heart too much to see you in trouble.”

  She hugged him again, and Burke spotted tears in Claude’s eyes. When she pulled back, Burke hugged Claude too.

  Claude pointed to the front door. “Let’s go,” he said, leading the way. “I don’t want to spend any more time here.”

  Burke nudged him and asked what charges he was facing. Claude shrugged and said he was being released without charges.

  “The police do not really have time to spend on small-time villains such as myself,” he said. “Just one protester has been charged, and that’s because he punched a flic in the nose.”

  “But didn’t you punch someone?”

  “I might have, but no one wants to make a big deal out of it,” Claude said. “They’re charging the other guy because he’s been in trouble before.”

  “So why did they keep you in jail overnight?” Hélène asked as they walked outside into the brilliant sunshine.

  “They were afraid we would cause more trouble,” he said. “I think they also wanted to frighten us.”

  “Did it work?” Burke asked.

  Claude nodded. “Oh, yes. Jail is not a good place for a man like me. As you know, I am cultured and sensitive.”

  Claude laughed. Burke and Hélène exchanged a glance.

  “But, seriously, it is not a place I would like to return to,” Claude added.