The Bastard is Dead

by D'arcy Kavanagh

  Although he hadn’t really known McManus, and what he had known about him was hardly positive, Burke decided he’d go, if for no other reason than curiosity. Besides, he didn’t have anything else planned until his date with Hélène. Rousseau said he’d pick him up in a half hour since the funeral was at eleven.

  Rousseau, good to his word, was there in precisely thirty minutes, and they set off in his Toyota Corolla for the working-class resort of Saint-Raphaël. If the traffic wasn’t too bad, they’d make it within an hour.

  Burke wondered who was looking after the shop while Rousseau was gone.

  “Well, Petit was going to start work today, but he’s going to the funeral as well, so I have a part-time person doing it,” Rousseau said. “So, no problems. I definitely couldn’t ask Petit to skip the funeral to look after business, and I definitely didn’t want to miss it either.”

  “Why are you so eager to go?” Burke asked.

  Rousseau laughed at that. “Curiosity, nothing else. I want to see who’s there to say goodbye to the bastard,” he said.

  Burke wasn’t impressed by that, but then realized he essentially felt the same. He was curious, too. Would there be ten people or one hundred? If he was a bookmaker, he’d have put up odds on a small turnout.

  Rousseau, who drove like he wanted to race Grand Prix, knew the fastest route. He got them there in forty-five minutes. The funeral wasn’t for another half hour, and yet the parking lot outside the church was full and cars were lined up for blocks.

  This was going to be quite a show.

  They got out, and Burke scanned the crowd for familiar faces. He saw several—all from the pro cycling world. A couple recognized him and nodded. He waved back. He noticed that none of the cycling people were lost in sadness; a handful almost looked like they were sharing a joke.

  The church inside was nearing capacity. Rousseau and Burke got a couple of seats in a side pew near the rear. A few minutes later, people were being forced to stand. An overflow crowd. Who’d have guessed?

  Burke spotted some Global cyclists near the front. They were reasonably easy to spot; they were wearing the team’s blue-yellow-and-white cycling jerseys—a statement of support. Then he caught a quick glimpse of Petit, who was with the team and sporting a jersey as well.

  As the crowd waited for the mass to begin, Burke looked about. He saw some executives with the International Union of Professional Cyclists. They all seemed appropriately sad, although he expected their glumness was all an act. Then he saw another familiar face—Jean-Pierre Fortin, the detective from Nice. Fortin was whispering into a woman’s ear, and Burke guessed she was a cop, too. They were probably on the job, although Burke couldn’t figure out for what purpose.

  Finally, the priest and altar boys came out, and the mass began. Burke wasn’t a practicing Catholic anymore but found himself following along with the proceedings.

  When it came time for the priest to do his readings and address the audience, Burke wondered what he would say. McManus might have had good qualities, but if he had, they’d certainly been under wraps and hadn’t included anything to do with being friendly or kind or generous or helpful.

  It soon became evident that the priest had not known McManus, because he made sweeping comments about McManus’s devotion to his sport, to his teammates and to family and friends. He said McManus had demonstrated that a “life lived seriously and well is a gift itself.”

  When the priest said that, Rousseau snorted and said, “What a pile of shit.”

  Burke checked to see if anyone had heard, but it seemed no one had. In fact, most of the faces around were showing little expression at all. They were just watching. A couple of times, he spotted people pointing at something or someone as if sharing an observation or secret.

  Many people in the audience probably didn’t even know McManus. They were there because his name had been all over the news. He was a celebrity, and for some people, that made his funeral a special event to attend. It was the same the world over—the media covers a person’s death, and people want to be at the funeral to share some of the limelight and get some fodder for future stories they’d tell friends and family.

  Two others spoke about McManus. One was a team rep, and one was a first cousin. Both had obviously known him and recounted a couple of whimsical anecdotes that made Burke frown in disbelief. McManus was the last person on the planet to be whimsical, but the two had a job to do and showed off the trainer in a good light.

  And then it was back to the mass, which thankfully ended in another twenty minutes. After, McManus’s casket was carried out by pallbearers—half wearing Global team jerseys—followed by the congregation, which trooped out appropriately solemn.

  Burke and Rousseau finally made it outside, joining the others as the casket was loaded into a white limousine. The vehicle wasn’t moving yet, though. More visiting had to occur.

  Burke and Rousseau moved toward a group of ex-pros they knew. They all shook hands and made serious noises, but it took just a couple of minutes before the wisecracks started. They had all known McManus, and not one was a fan.

  As they swapped progressively nastier anecdotes about McManus, careful to ensure no one overheard, Burke noticed the deceased’s family had congregated near the limo. They definitely looked upset.

  He tore his eyes away and glanced around. It was like a Who’s Who of the professional cycling world. Lots of team managers and plenty of great ex-riders had shown up to bask in the limelight.

  “A big show, eh?” Rousseau said, nudging him in the side.

  “It just needs the red carpet,” Burke said, noticing TV cameras taking video from the roadside.

  He caught Petit looking at them and waved. The mechanic raised a hand in return. He had an arm draped around a frowning middle-aged woman. Petit whispered something in the woman’s ear, and she nodded.

  “That woman with Petit seems a little upset,” Burke said to Rousseau.

  “Maybe she’s an old flame,” Rousseau said. “McManus had a way with the ladies, although that always seemed unbelievable to me.”

  “McManus with women, now that’s a scary thought,” Burke said. “I bet it’s Petit’s mother. There’s definitely a resemblance.”

  Rousseau looked carefully at Petit and the woman. “You’re right; they do look alike,” he said. “He’s mentioned his mother, but I’ve never met her.”

  “Well, everyone has a mother,” Burke said.

  “Even McManus had one, although it’s hard to believe,” Rousseau replied.

  Burke spotted Fortin and excused himself. He approached the Nice detective who crooked an eyebrow when Burke got near.

  “Are you here on business?” Burke asked.

  Fortin shrugged. “A good day for a funeral,” he said.

  Burke looked at the woman beside Fortin, who introduced her. The woman was his sergeant, Sylvie Côté. She nodded at him. She was short but sturdy, and Burke figured she was mostly muscle. She had penetrating brown eyes that made him slightly uncomfortable.

  “Anything happening with the McManus case?” Burke inquired.

  Fortin smiled and shook his head. “No change, Monsieur Burke,” he said with the exaggerated patience of an adult addressing a young child. “And that’s all I’m going to say.”

  Burke smiled back and excused himself, returning to Rousseau and the others.

  They agreed with the other ex-riders that a drink at a seaside café would be a good way to end matters.

  Ten minutes later, there were a dozen of them seated around two conjoined tables. They’d just come from a funeral, but it definitely didn’t seem like it. They were laughing and swapping yarns. A few times someone commented on a pretty passerby.

  Burke spotted Petit on the boardwalk with the woman, her arm linked inside his. She wasn’t frowning anymore. They looked like they were out for a casual stroll. Everyone had recovered, it seemed.

  Burke didn’t join in the ribald conversation at his table. Instead, his mi
nd drifted to a blog about the funeral and the strangers in attendance. After he finished his pastis, he pushed Rousseau to leave.

  They were approaching Rousseau’s vehicle when they encountered Petit and the woman.

  Petit seemed uncomfortable, but still managed to introduce everyone. The woman was indeed his mother, Karin Petit, who nodded shyly at Burke and Rousseau.

  “Did you know Pierre McManus, madame?” Burke asked. He was growing uncharacteristically nosy these last few days.

  “I knew him a little,” she replied. “Léon worked for him.”

  “McManus was an interesting man,” Rousseau said.

  “He was unusual,” Madame Petit said.

  Burke nodded. “It’s hard to believe he’s gone,” he said. And that was true.

  “His time came,” Léon Petit said. “Ours will, too.”

  And with that, he directed his mother down the sidewalk.

  “Like I told you, our Léon isn’t much for conversation,” Rousseau said.

  The drive back went quickly and quietly. Rousseau stopped in the Villeneuve-Loubet village parking lot to let Burke off.

  “Well, that was not the most exciting funeral I’ve attended,” Rousseau said, “but it was still interesting. I’m glad I didn’t bet on how many would attend.”

  “Me, too.”

  “I still can’t believe Pierre McManus died of a heart attack or whatever the heart issue was,” Rousseau added, shaking his head.

  And neither could Burke.

  Back in his apartment, Burke was surprised at how easily the words fell out of him and onto the computer screen. When he reread his work, he thought he might be getting the hang of this writing business, although he wasn’t ready to write a novel.

  He fired it off to Lemaire.

  Next up—a date with Hélène.

  AFTER A SUPERB BOTTLE of wine and some hors d’oeuvres at Roxie’s, followed by a stroll along the promenade, Hélène suggested they have a nightcap at Burke’s place. A little surprised, he happily agreed.

  Hélène walked into his apartment, looked around and then turned to Burke. She stood for a moment with a coy look in her eye, and then she reached out and pulled him to her. She kissed him—not gently, but with an eagerness that surprised him. She tasted mildly of garlic and wine.

  She pushed him back. “You’re not going to say ‘no’ tonight,” she said. Then she kissed him again.

  He didn’t need any encouragement, and soon, they were tearing each other’s clothes off, stumbling from the wall to the couch, where she directed him into her. When they were done, they were both covered in sweat. Burke looked at Hélène. Her eyes were closed, and she had a slight smile on her lips. She was lovely and undeniably sexy.

  “I’ve wanted to do that for the longest time,” she said, as if she had just read his mind.

  “I never knew,” Burke said.

  “I gave you plenty of hints,” she said, looking at him.

  “I’m just a pretty young thing who isn’t very observant,” he joked, and she laughed.

  “When we were at Roxie’s, I couldn’t wait to get through those drinks and the escargot,” Hélène said. “And then we went for that long walk on the beach, and the entire time, my mind was stuck on what would happen next. All that time, I just wanted to get you up here.”

  “And if I had said no?” Burke wondered aloud.

  She laughed. “I knew you wouldn’t.”

  She reached over and grabbed her purse, pulling out a cigarette. “You mind?” she asked.

  “Not at all,” he said, and with his foot, he pushed over a small plate for the ashes.

  She lit up, took a long pull and then let the smoke drift from her nostrils. Burke had never been a fan of smoking, but he admired the languid way she puffed on the cigarette. It was almost sexual.

  “When I’m done with this, I hope you will be ready,” she said.

  Her intent was plain.

  And he was ready. He carried her into his bedroom, and there they made love, almost falling off the bed in their enthusiasm. When they had sex a third time, it was the same—passionate and uninhibited.

  Hélène, finally satisfied, said she was hungry, and they went into the kitchen, where they made shrimp crepes and opened a bottle of red wine.

  After they ate, they went to his bedroom. Hélène soon fell asleep with her head on Burke’s chest. She actually snored, but not loudly.

  Burke was exhausted and felt like all the bones had been removed from his body. If he was any more relaxed, he’d be a puddle. He smiled at that. He was starting to think descriptively.

  His last thought involved Hélène wearing her peasant blouse but nothing else, and then he fell asleep.

  A few hours later, Burke awoke to Hélène’s hand exploring his chest, then his stomach and then his groin. He looked at her. She was staring back like a cat eyeing a mouse. When her hand grabbed his rapidly hardening penis, he gasped.

  He wondered what Uncle Claude would think if he knew what was happening.

  And then Hélène made Burke completely forget Claude.

  They had breakfast looking out the window at the perfect morning before them. Burke had on his shorts, while Héléne was wearing his shirt, mostly unbuttoned. Every few seconds, he snuck a glance at her. She was even sexier in this quiet moment. How could he have missed all her signals before?

  “I’m wondering about your uncle,” Burke finally said.

  Hélène laughed. Burke liked her laugh. It was full and passionate, and she didn’t care if it was too loud.

  “My uncle is a smart man,” she said, patting Burke’s hand. “He knows this is part of life, and besides, I think he approves of you, even if you spend a lot of time not doing much.”

  “I keep busy,” Burke said defensively.

  “Yes, of course you do,” she said, clearly not meaning the words.

  Burke knew she was right, although these last few days had been a different matter. If anything, he had been overly busy trying to sort out new experiences.

  “Can I see you tonight?” Burke asked, knowing he was coming across like an anxious puppy.

  Hélène laughed again and shook her head. “Ah, you have a little taste and you want more,” she said. “That makes me happy. I can’t do tonight, but I am sure we will have other times, chéri.”

  Burke smiled back at her. “That would be good,” he said.

  “You Canadians, you are so polite,” Hélène teased. “You don’t get an answer you want, but you accept it and say thank you.”

  “I didn’t say thank you.”

  “Well, you should have,” Hélène said, and she stood. “It’s time for me to get home.”

  She showered quickly, dressed and then left, but not before kissing him tenderly at the door and saying, “Soon, chéri.”

  He hoped so.

  After he cleaned up, Burke went to the newsagent’s for his papers. As he stepped inside, Jean motioned for him to come over.

  “That was bad at Madame Marois’s home,” Jean said, looking serious.

  “She was fortunate it wasn’t worse,” Burke said.

  “Bianca thinks we should meet with her this evening and talk about her safety,” Jean continued. “Too often my wife likes to get involved with other people’s business, but I think she’s right in this case.”

  “Who’s ‘we’?” Burke asked.

  “Those who were at her place for the fire and a couple of other neighbors,” Jean said. “I think Claude would like to be there, too.”

  Burke didn’t have anything planned, so he agreed.

  “Does Madame know about this?” he asked.

  “Not yet,” Jean said. “We wanted to make sure we had some people who could come.”

  “What if she says no?”

  Jean shrugged. “That’s possible. Madame can be a little difficult. But we need to try. It’s a shame her children live so far away.”

  They agreed to contact each other later in the afternoon to discuss
details.

  “Bianca is thinking nine tonight, after dinner, but we will see,” Jean added.

  Back home, Burke read his papers, but didn’t get much from them. He struggled to concentrate, thanks in part to the proposed meeting with Madame Marois, but mostly because images of Hélène kept showing up in his mind.

  His thoughts were interrupted by the phone.

  “Good blog,” were Lemaire’s first words. “Your comments about McManus’s funeral are thought-provoking, but don’t let it go to your head.”

  Burke wondered what the editor was alluding to, and then he recalled how he had written about strangers showing up and mixing with people from the pro cycling world in a kind of odd ritual that wasn’t about McManus as much as about being seen. “Sometimes,” he had written, “the dead are ignored at their own funerals.”

  “As a result,” continued Lemaire, “I’ve put your name forward to represent us in a panel discussion about professional cycling.”

  “What’re you talking about?”

  “Partly as a result of McManus and Den Weent, the University of Nice Sophia Antipolis is planning a special forum on the subject called Secrets of the Pro Cycling World,” Lemaire said. “They’re having it in three days. They asked me to be involved because we’ve run a lot of stories, blogs and video on it, but I’m no good before a crowd. Besides, you’re closer to the information, so I suggested you instead, and the organizers were very happy.”

  “Me?”

  “You should be getting a phone call or email today,” Lemaire said. “You’ll be great.”

  “Who else will be on the panel?” Burke asked.

  “Some professor of law at the university, that TV sports person in Nice—uh, Gerard Something or other—a rep from the professional cyclists’ union and a couple of others—plus you.”

  Burke had serious doubts, but Lemaire, seeming to sense them, kept working on him till Burke finally relented.

  No sooner had he hung up that the phone rang again. It was an organizer for the Secrets of the Pro Cycling World forum. He was persuasive and flattered Burke by saying Burke was “not just a well-read commentator, but an ex-pro racer who understood the sport inside and outside.” The organizer also said there would be plenty of media coverage.