A Vintage End

by D'arcy Kavanagh

  He looked behind to see who had bumped him.

  On the grass was André Rousseau who sat up and shook himself like a dog.

  “What happened?” said Rousseau.

  Then he stood, looking like he hadn’t sustained any serious injuries.

  “Are you OK?” Burke asked.

  Rousseau dusted some dirt off his legs and nodded.

  “I’ll live,” he grunted.

  Burke knew the accident with Rousseau couldn’t have been helped. Rousseau, a professional bike mechanic, was also an experienced cyclist with superior bike-handling skills. Whatever had happened wasn’t his fault.

  Burke looked back toward the road.

  A dozen cyclists were on the ground, a few groaning with injuries. Several spectators were also stretched out.

  “Bloody tacks!” one cyclist yelled, studying something in his hand.

  A few other riders looked at what the rider had and then at the ground around them. Burke joined them.

  There were dozens of oversized furniture tacks. No, make that hundreds. One touch from the razor-sharp point and a tire would go flat immediately.

  Burke picked one up.

  “There’s someone’s face on the head of this tack,” said a rider close to Burke.

  Burke saw a tiny face imprinted on his tack. He brought it closer.

  “Bosco Yablonski,” he said to himself.

  “What?” said Rousseau, leaning over Burke’s shoulder.

  “That’s Yablonski’s face there,” Burke said, holding it closer to his friend.

  “What’s that writing on it?” Rousseau asked.

  Burke studied the tack.

  “It’s almost like some kind of logo. It’s so tiny I can’t make out anything more specific.”

  “On a furniture tack? This is crazy,” Rousseau said. “Who would toss tacks onto a road?”

  “Maybe our friends from Saint-Raphaël,” Burke replied.

  “They could have gotten someone killed,” Rousseau said.

  “I wonder if these tacks were produced by one of Yablonski’s companies or if our Saint-Raphaël friends are behind putting his face on them,” Burke said

  Burke studied the scene around them. There were still a few people stretched out and race vehicles were stopping to provide assistance.

  There was no indication who had tossed the tacks onto the road.

  Burke looked down at his bike, running a hand over the spokes of his front wheel and then his back wheel. He glanced at his cables and shook his headset. Miraculously, it seemed the bike wasn’t damaged except for a scratch or two and the flat tire.

  He looked at Rousseau who had just finished examining his machine.

  “Everything is fine,” Rousseau told Burke.

  “Mine, too, except for the flat,” Burke admitted.

  Rolling their bikes beside them, they walked toward the road, wondering if they needed to help anyone injured.

  A first-aid van rolled up and two emergency staff quickly got out.

  On closer inspection, Burke thought no one was seriously injured. The worst cases seemed to be two riders with broken collarbones and an elderly woman who had sustained a nasty cut on her left forearm.

  Within five minutes, the two injured riders and the old woman were in the ambulance and heading to Nice.

  Others were being bandaged by race staff and by some area residents who had come to offer assistance. A few minutes later, a second ambulance showed up.

  Burke, happy that his smartphone was still functioning, snapped a few photos of the scene and sent two of the best to François Lemaire.

  Beside him, Rousseau was examining a couple of the furniture tacks, both featuring Yablonski’s face.

  “Nasty things,” Rousseau said. “In the early days of the Tour de France, fans often used to toss these onto the road to prevent racers beating their favourite. I read that it happened enough that race organizers once considered cancelling the whole event.”

  “It happened in a recent Tour as well,” Burke said.

  “That’s right, I remember,” said Rousseau, nodding. “The Brit who was leading got a flat and several other contenders had more than one.”

  It had been a bad day for the Tour.

  Today wasn’t great either, Burke thought.

  “I don’t see anyone here being fingered for tossing the tacks,” Rousseau said.

  Burke didn’t either. Whoever had done it, had obviously tossed the tacks onto the road at a moment when everyone’s attention was elsewhere, probably as the group of cyclists approached.

  He scanned faces. Everyone looked concerned, puzzled or angry. No one looked guilty or not surprised.

  The race officials on site suggested that uninjured participants should continue riding once a race crew had finished clearing the road of tacks..

  As an ex-pro cyclist, Burke quickly replaced the damaged innertube with a spare from the tool bag strapped to his seat post. Then he pumped it up. The entire change took three minutes. He was ready to go.

  A few minutes later, the race crew with help from some spectators were finished making the road safe again, allowing Burke, Rousseau and the other participants to cycle once more. The riders began pedaling, but no one seemed eager to push the pace. In fact, Burke thought most cyclists were working their brakes while studying the road ahead for more tacks.

  About 90 minutes later, Burke and Rousseau were on the Promenade des Anglais. They were surrounded by scores of other riders. To the side were thousands of cheering spectators.

  “Great welcome,” Rousseau told Burke.

  “Maybe they heard about the furniture tacks and want to show sympathy,” Burke said, expecting at least a few people had probably used social media to alert the world.

  They were about a kilometre away from the finish line when Burke spotted paper floating over the riders about 100 metres ahead.

  It didn’t look like ticker tape to Burke.

  As he got closer, more paper came down.

  Someone was releasing it, but Burke couldn’t see from where.

  Then he saw what the paper was – more fake German reichsmarks featuring Bosco Yablonski’s face. But instead of hundreds of them, there seemed to be thousands floating about.

  Burke saw a couple of riders reach for the floating reichsmarks and collide which, in turn, triggered a pileup of another dozen riders. Fortunately, no one had been going fast, but there was still the sickening crunch of crumpled metal followed by some enthusiastic cursing.

  Burke and Rousseau joined the other riders in coming to a complete stop as the pileup started to get sorted out.

  “This is going to make Bosco Yablonski very angry,” Rousseau said, holding a couple of reichsmarks.

  “He’ll want blood from whoever did this,” Burke said.

  Rousseau nudged Burke on the arm.

  “This fake money is one thing, but those furniture tacks are a different matter,” Rousseau said.

  Burke had been thinking the same.

  “There’s definitely a different attitude at play in the two stunts,” Burke said, noticing they were almost ready to ride again. “The fake money is harmless except to Yablonski, but the tacks were far more dangerous and targeted the riders.”

  “But it has to be the same people behind the two actions,” Rousseau said.

  “I agree,” Burke said, starting to pedal slowly, his friend still beside him. “But I think something has happened inside the group doing these things. I just don’t have a clue what.”

  Chapter 13

  When they finally crossed the finish line, Burke and Rousseau noticed a dozen police rushing about with another two dozen individuals wearing jackets emblazoned with “Security” on front and back, doing much the same.

  Yablonski and his people were definitely not amused by the floating money. Nor were the police.

  Burke wondered how so much currency could be released without anyone noticing who did it. There were so many people in the vicinity that someo
ne must have spotted something.

  But obviously no one had been caught.

  The crowd was active, too, with many spectators holding the fake currency and displaying the bill to neighbours. More than a few laughed. Most seemed to be intrigued by the image of Bosco Yablonski.

  “It’s almost like some weird party,” Rousseau said.

  And it was true.

  In another area, dozens of spectators were pushing their way closer to the main stage which had been set up for a band to play.

  “The next thing you’ll see is a mosh pit,” Rousseau said.

  Burke suggested they should get rid of their bikes and return to watch the action. Rousseau agreed.

  A few minutes later, the two men were back without their machines and wandering around. If anything, Burke thought, there was even more noise and more waving of the fake currency with a few teens chanting “Yablonski, Yablonski.” The strange part, he thought, was that most spectators probably had no clue who Yablonski was. He tried to remember the German word that meant “taking pleasure in the misfortune of another.” Then he recalled it – schadenfreude. The French didn’t really have a similar word, but maybe they should, he thought.

  When the loudspeakers started playing some upbeat music, the mood of the crowd seemed to become even more exuberant. When some youngsters started dancing near the BMX area, there was applause and cheering. Not for the first time, Burke thought that for a people normally portrayed as reserved, the French enjoyed a good party.

  “Look at that,” Rousseau said, nudging Burke to look at some security staff sweeping up the fake currency.

  “Out of sight, out of mind,” Burke said although he noticed many spectators were still clasping the fake currency.

  Burke then spotted the MC from the Saint-Raphaël race walk to the mic. The tall, young man, dressed the same as the week before, began by thanking everyone for showing up to support the racers. He urged the crowd to applaud themselves and the riders.

  The spectators did as requested with enthusiasm.

  Then the MC, smiling and working the crowd with lots of energy, asked for a round of applause for the organizers and sponsors.

  Again, the spectators responded with lots of clapping.

  Burke wondered if the MC would mention Bosco Yablonski. He figured he wouldn’t. Why make a bad situation worse?

  “And please give a special round of applause to our main sponsor and No. 1 fan of cycling, Monsieur Bosco Yablonski,” the MC yelled.

  Burke was surprised at the MC’s request for the crowd to show its support for Yablonski. It seemed risky.

  But the crowd erupted with cheers.

  “That’s a lot different from a half hour ago,” Burke said, leaning into Rousseau to be heard.

  Rousseau responded with a classic Gallic shrug. He was obviously surprised, too.

  Then the MC swept an arm out and onto the stage came Bosco Yablonski, grinning and waving like he hadn’t a care in the world as he made his way by the band’s drum setup and other various instruments.

  And maybe he didn’t, Burke thought. Maybe the skeleton stunt and this new bit with the faked currency and the furniture tacks didn’t bother him.

  Then Burke recalled how Yablonski’s face had looked when Burke had questioned him in Saint-Raphaël. Yablonski had been livid then. He was probably just as angry now. But the businessman was adept at hiding his true feelings.

  Pulling out his smartphone from his jersey pocket, Burke snapped a couple of photos and took some video of Yablonski. He didn’t figure Lemaire would use it since the editor had a reporter and a videographer around somewhere, but it was better to toss something to the editor than be reprimanded for doing nothing.

  Burke sent the photos and video off, and then studied the scene on the stage.

  Thanking the crowd, Yablonski looked relaxed and pleased. Once again, he seemed like a man without a care in the world.

  As Yablonski began his introductory remarks, Burke wondered about social media and checked his phone. There were plenty of mentions of the Nice race and the fake currency. Some comments were funny, some were rude, but most were uninspired.

  Burke checked the race website to see if it had been hacked.

  It hadn’t.

  Yablonski was now praising the participants for their efforts on a tough course. He even cracked a joke about how tough the next vintage race might be.

  Burke moved closer to the stage with Rousseau in his wake.

  He could see several security staff to the side of the stage, all of them studying the crowd for any possible trouble. There was no doubt they were on high alert.

  Burke spotted the bodyguard he had had troubles with in Saint-Raphaël. The man looked even nastier with the passage of just a few days.

  Yablonski continued talking, discussing the increased popularity of vintage bike races and how they celebrated the sport of cycling in general.

  “He’s one happy guy,” Rousseau said with sarcasm in his voice.

  Burke glanced over his shoulder and spotted maintenance and security staff still collecting the fake currency featuring Yablonski’s face.

  Then he noticed a couple of TV camera crews edging close to the stage.

  Two minutes later, Yablonski was finished, handing the microphone to the MC who started outlining all the festivities that were going on and would be coming up: the band, the demonstration areas, the playground, the beer garden and, for VIPs, the special tent featuring snacks.

  Instead of disappearing out the back and into an awaiting car, Yablonski exited to the side of the stage where the camera crews were. A moment later he was being scrummed by not just the TV people but another half dozen reporters.

  Burke pushed his way closer to the scrum and, recording some video with his phone, heard how the questions had one focus – the distribution of faked reischmarks featuring Bosco Yablonski’s face.

  To Burke’s surprise, Yablonski didn’t shy away from the questions. He told the journalists he didn’t have a clue about why his photo was on such bills and he would leave the matter to the police. He said the prank was obviously “the product of a disturbed mind.”

  Someone asked about the furniture tacks with Yablonski’s face imprinted on them. Yablonski shrugged and said “another idiot.”

  The journalists asked about Yablonski’s family background. Again, to Burke’s surprise, Yablonski answered the questions head on, saying his family had nothing to be ashamed about, not now, now 30 years ago and not during the Second World War.

  Yablonski was acting like an old pro in the scrum. As he continued talking to the reporters, Burke noticed a tall, 40ish woman not far from Yablonski’s right shoulder. Well dressed in a dark suit, she occasionally interjected a word or two in Yablonski’s ear. Burke had the sense she was the tycoon’s new PR manager. He wondered what had happened to the last one. Nothing good, he expected.

  After a few minutes, the reporters started to leave so they could file their stories.

  Yablonski turned and looked at Burke who shuddered at the unexpected attention. Yablonski kept his eyes on Burke for three or four seconds and then he turned back to face a couple of final questions which he answered without providing any new information.

  Then Yablonski, with his bodyguard and his new public relations manager beside him, turned and left, still smiling, still affable, the essence of calm, cool and collected.

  Burke glanced back to the stage where musicians and technicians were starting a final sound check. It would be getting loud very soon.

  Burke was curious, not about the music but about the crowd’s opinions of the currency. So, he nudged Rousseau and explained what he wanted to do. His friend nodded and said he would tag along.

  Burke went about 75 metres away, close to the seaside edge of the promenade and walked up to a group of middle-aged cyclists.

  “Good race conditions today,” he said by way of interjecting himself.

  The group – four men and three women – nodd
ed with a couple saying the weather could not have been better.

  Once engaged with them, Burke talked a little about the route and asked what the others had thought. For the most part, they were all eager to contribute to the discussion. Even Rousseau tossed in an opinion or two.

  “Did any of you see those fake reischmarks, the ones with Yablonski’s face on them?” Burke asked, finally getting to his point.

  “You couldn’t miss them,” said one man, hauling out a couple of the bills from one of his jersey’s back pockets.

  “We saw them on the Corniche and then here at the finish,” a woman said.

  “Someone really doesn’t like Monsieur Yablonski,” said another man.

  “Do you think there’s any real connection between Yablonski and the Nazis?” Burke asked.

  “I wouldn’t think so, but someone seems to feel that way,” said another woman. “It makes me wonder if there’s any truth to it.”

  “It’s just a stupid prank,” said one man. “The media have obviously been digging into Yablonski as a result of what happened last week in Saint-Raphaël. If there was anything there, we’d know about it by now.”

  Burke smiled and moved on, trying a group of four spectators in their late 30s or early 40s.

  “Great day for the race,” he said in a casual way, hoping the weather approach would work with these people as it had with the first group.

  And it did, somewhat to Burke’s surprise since he usually found the French bored by weather – but fascinated by any conversation involving food - whereas back in his native Canada it seemed the weather was the most frequent topic of discussion at any time of the year. Of course, Canada, and his home province of Québec, got more weather than most places.

  “It’s a perfect day,” said a red-haired woman in an accent that sounded Parisian to Burke. “You couldn’t have had it any better for your race.”

  Burke agreed.

  “We were in the area and thought we’d come and see what the race was all about,” volunteered a tall, slender man who seemed to be her companion.

  His accent also seemed Parisian.

  “Are you from somewhere else?” Burke asked the group.

  They were and Burke had been correct – they were from Paris and were down on the Med for two weeks of warmth.