The Primrose Park Gambit

Wilbur Blane learned that he would become homeless while he was teaching his grandson how to play chess. 

They were in the Community Common Room in the apartment building he’d lived in for the last twenty-five years. Francine, one of young ladies in the complex’s office, pushed through the double doors with brightly coloured printouts in one hand and a box of thumbtacks in the other and headed straight for the giant bulletin board. 

“What’s wrong, Francine?” Wilbur asked. 

“Nothing.”

“You’re lying, Francine.”

As a retired homicide detective, Burback was an expert in reading the subtle cues in body language and at that moment, Francine’s entire body was screaming at the top of its lungs that she was upset. She posted a vivid orange sheet to the community bulletin board and sighed.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” she said. “Read about it here.” 

She left, head hung between her shoulders.

Wilbur left his grandson to ponder the future of his king, crossed the room, and stopped in front of the bulletin board. It was covered with handmade posters seeking play dates for cats, buyers for unwanted books, participants for the Victoria Day Pot Luck, and myriad other events. Wilbur’s best friend Jack wandered over.

“What’s up with Francine?” he asked. “You’d think her dog died.”

Wilbur read the notice with growing alarm. Jack hooked his reading classes over his ears peered at the notice.

ATTENTION TENANTS!!

Primrose Park, part of the Nolan Group of properties, has been sold for redevelopment to Way Forward Property Development. Watch your mailboxes for an invitation to a community information event hosted by Banner Ridge City Council scheduled for 20 May, 2021. Paul Murphy, CEO of Way Forward Property Development will be in attendance to field your questions and concerns.

The announcement went on about where to sign up online to reserve a spot, but Wilbur was more interested in the photo of the man included with the post, a handsome man in his mid-thirties. Beneath the photo was the caption: Paul Murphy, CEO of Way Forward Properties. A little alarm rang in the back of his mind. 

“Way Forward,” Jack snorted. “Never heard of them. What do you think this means?”

“If it means what I think it does,” he said, “then we all need to start looking for new digs. We’re about to be put out at the curb with the trash.”

Wilbur tore off one of the slips with the web addressed printed on it.

“They can’t do that,” Jack said. “I’ve lived here twenty year!”

“Doesn’t matter, Jack. We’re renters, not owners. Murphy owns the land now under our feet and he can do whatever the hell he wants with it. He can turn it into an amusement park or an empty lot and we don’t have a thing to say about it.”

Over the course of the week, Wilbur read everything he could in the local papers about Way Forward redevelopment projects. It had projects from Montreal to Vancouver, all highly lucrative condo and office tower projects and now one in Banner Ridge. Three other neighbourhoods besides Primrose Park were in the cross-hairs, mostly older rental properties. Way Forward’s modus operandi was to buy out private owners, evict the renters, then knock everything to the ground and rebuild from scratch. Wilbur Googled the price of local condos and scrolled until he couldn’t stomach another ounce of despair. His policeman’s pension had about as much give as a brick and the cheapest condo in the listings worked out to more than twice his rent. 

Way Forward’s redevelopment announcement triggered almost volcanic community outrage. Social activists picketed outside Way Forward’s downtown office and a gang of old hippies protested outside City Hall, demanding that city council revoke approval of the proposed developments. Editorials crowed that displaced tenants might find homes in the city’s affordable housing program, but space was extremely limited and many units were in worse condition than the rentals Murphy planned to demolish. 

On the evening of 20 May, Wilbur and Jack took up their seats at the Epsilon Convention Centre in their best blazers and slacks like Kirk Douglas and Jack Nicholson, a pair of geriatric heartthrobs. The Chairwoman of the Planning Committee, called the session to order then handed the proceedings over to the City Manager who preached about how much cash the redevelopment would infuse into the city’s economy.  When Paul Murphy took the floor a chorus of boos and heckles erupted, ending with the cops escorting a trio of belligerent octogenarians from the property. 

Murphy’s performance about his development plan was well-rehearsed and he paced up and down the stage while his beautiful female assistant projected 3D scale models onto an overhead screen. Primrose Park was unrecognizable. Red Crane Plaza, where Wilbur got his weekly dose of Indian food, was replaced with a sleek light-rail station. His apartment building was replaced by a ten-storey office tower and adjacent parking garage. Wilbur stopped listening. 

“The number of affordable rentals is barely above the municipal requirement,” Wilbur asked when the floor was opened to questions. “I trust you’ll make some adjustments for an old renter like me.”

Murphy flashed his whitest smile. It was ghoulish on the overhead projection. 

“There’s always a period of tweaking and adjustment,” he said, “but I’m afraid the ratio of condo to rental space is set. We have very favourable terms, especially for members of the greatest generation such as yourself. Give Ms. Harper your name and email address after the session and we’ll be happy to send you our financing terms.”

Wilbur returned to his seat and eased himself down beside Jack. 

“We’re screwed,” Jack said.

Wilbur grunted and watched Murphy dodge and weave every question fired at him. That nagging alarm wouldn’t leave him alone. There was something about Murphy that made him think they’d met once before, but he couldn’t tug the memory loose from all the junk he’d accumulated over the decades. Wilbur cursed getting old.

Wilbur booked appointments with his city council woman and Paul Murphy to ask for more affordable rentals in development plans but Murphy blew off every one of them. Something important always came up at the last minute and after the third missed appointment, Wilbur was more determined than ever to get in front of Murphy.

Over beer one night, Jack asked, “What are you going to do?”

“If Murphy won’t come to me, I’ll go to him.”

One Tuesday morning, Wilbur parked his car a block up the street from Way Forward’s headquarters and waited for his moment. Murphy arrived around 9am in a red BMW and an expensive suit. People streamed in and out of the office all morning and around noon Murphy left the office and walked down the street. Wilbur got out and tailed him down the block to a gourmet sandwich shop and watched from a distance through the glass storefront as Murphy ordered his lunch then take a seat at a table by the window. He entered and sat down in the empty chair across from Murphy.

“Mr. Murphy,” Wilbur said in his best cop’s voice. Murphy glanced up with a mouthful of sandwich. “You’re a hard man to meet. I’m Wilbur Blane. We had a few meetings scheduled, but you…couldn’t make them.”

“I know who you are. What do you want?”

“To warn you that if you don’t change your development plan so it doesn’t displace so many people, I will tie it up in red tape until your backers pull every red cent. Do you want that, Mr. Murphy? Is It worth it?”

Murphy glared at Wilbur. He’d faced that look across the interrogation table hundreds of times over the course of his homicide career, the look of man taking the measure of his enemy. Wheels were turning inside Murphy’s head until a passing employee caught his attention.

“Hey, can you get me the manager?” he said.

Wilbur was undeterred. Instead, he spoke with even more fervor.

“These developments will displace the seniors who have lived in this community for decades. I won’t let you do this.”

Murphy smirked and took another bite of his sandwich.

A young man in a white shirt and tie appeared at the table.

“Hello, I’m Steve,” he said. “How can I help you?”

“Thank you,” Murphy said. “This elderly gentleman is disoriented. He thinks I’m his son, but I don’t know him. He’s having an episode. Can you call someone?”

“I’m not senile!” Wilbur barked. Steve reached for Wilbur, but he jerked away. “I want Mr. Murphy to listen! I’m going to be homeless in three months thanks to him!”

“Sir, please calm down,” Steve said. “If you don’t come with me quietly, I’ll have to call the police. We don’t want that do we? Come with me. We’ll get you home.”

But it was no use. All eyes in the sandwich shop were on him and every one of them assumed he was some confused old man. Wilbur banged the table and got to his feet.

“This isn’t over, Murphy,” he said. “You can’t force us out. This isn’t right!”

Steve coaxed and cajoled Wilbur out the door and offered to call a family member to retrieve him. Wilbur told him to go to hell.

Wilbur spent the rest of the day on his balcony drinking beer and feeling sorry for himself. He had showed his ass to Murphy and he wasn’t proud of it. Yes, it was terrible that his home was planned for destruction, but wasn’t progress the way of the world? His own grandparents’ home had been razed to make way for a grocery store. Wilbur chucked his empty can into a box and pulled a fresh one out of the cooler and cracked it open. In the morning, he would start looking for a new place to live.

Wilbur went to bed drunk around midnight and slept fitfully through tangled dreams of old cases. He woke up at 4 a.m. with a screaming bladder and as he stood over the toilet in the dark, one face kept returning from a case he’d worked in Oldford back in 1996. 

Michael Lutz, an 8 year old boy, had been killed by another boy named Peter Masters in a fight over some toys. The coroner had ruled that Masters had not intended to cause Lutz’s death, that it was accidental. During the scuffle, Lutz had lost his balance, fallen and struck the back of his head on a sharp rock resulting in a skull fracture. Masters had been tried as a youth on the charge of involuntary manslaughter, found guilty, and was released into the community under supervision. Wilbur was never really satisfied with the decision and had always felt there was more to the story, but he moved on to other work but he never forgot about Lutz. Wilbur flushed the toilet and downed some aspirin with a cup of water to combat the headache. He realized it wasn’t Lutz he’d dreamed—it was Masters. That little alarm rang a lot louder. 

In the morning, he gathered up some personal files he’d kept on the Lutz case then called in a few favours with friends he still had on the force and got access to the police lab, specifically with Chloe Rand, their photo and video specialist. On the way, he stopped and picked up a chai tea, Chloe’s favourite, and a black coffee for himself.

“Hey, old man,” she said with beaming smile and a hug. “Never thought I’d see you plodding these halls again.”

Wilbur hugged her back. “That makes two of us,” he said.

“I hear you have a special project for me.”

“I do.” Wilbur dug out a photo of Paul Murphy he’d printed off the Internet and handed it to her. “Can you work your magic and make this man look 8 years old?”

Chloe sipped her chai and looked at the photo. 

“Sure,” she said. “I’ve got other work ahead of me but I can squeeze this in over my lunch hour. Come back around one.”

“Will do.”

Wilbur spent the morning watching Way Forward Properties from across the street. He drank coffee and ate Danishes and sullenly watched rich people walk in and out of the office. They were potential buyers come to put deposits on condos and the thought just made him angrier that someone could decide to buy up the land he’d lived on for decades, force him out, and put up a parking garage. 

Wilbur’s watch beeped. It was 12:30. Time to head back to the station, he thought. Wilbur turned the car on, merged with traffic, and pointed his car toward police headquarters. 

As the breeze licked his face through the window, he wondered what this obsession with Murphy would result in. Was he just a crazy old man? Just the day before he’d given up and decided to look for a new place to live; now he was age regressing a photo of Murphy on some wild hunch. So what if Paul Murphy was Peter Masters? All it would really prove is that at some point in his life the man had decided to change his name to escape the notoriety of his past. Thousands of people, even ex-convicts looking for a fresh start, did the same thing every year. What was he planning to do with the information? 

He had to admit the ugly possibility he had been avoiding: some part of him had decided that that knowledge could prove to be a useful lever to bend Murphy to his will. Could he do it? Could he blackmail a man? It was a risky plan that could backfire spectacularly.

But what if there was something deeper. Wilbur had never liked the way the case ended. There were things about the Masters boy that bothered him. He claimed to be Lutz’s friend, but why had he stayed quiet for a day and a half while the search for Lutz had unfolded? There had been a few gruesome animal deaths—dogs and cats mostly—in Oldford that summer. Masters’ father was a piece of work, too—a man’s man with a few minor domestic battery charges against him. What if Masters was responsible for those animal deaths? What if Wilbur could prove Murphy was Masters and that he had intended to kill the Lutz boy? That would stop the redevelopment in its tracks. It wouldn’t be blackmail then; it would be justice, and long overdue.

Wilbur stopped at a busy intersection and waited on the red light. Pedestrians streamed past the front of his car as they crossed the street. Where would their lives take them? Would they be in his shoes in the twilight of their lives, anxious for the security of their own home? I’m doing this for them, he thought. So they won’t have to worry that their home won’t be snatched out from under them.

The light turned green and he eased on the accelerator. Out of the corner of his eye, as he pulled into the intersection, a black Dodge Ram pickup barrelled through the lights from his left. Wilbur jammed the gas to the floor and his little Honda lurched forward to get out of the way, but the Ram closed the distance and it slammed into his tiny car with the force of a wrecking ball. The window exploded as the door crumpled and the air bags deployed. His car wrenched sideways, then upside down and tumbling over and over and then the world went dark.

Incoherent sounds reached Wilbur from a great distance as visions of his life played out in his mind. So this is it, he thought. What’s next?

What came next was a soft, regular beep from some distant recess in the darkness. It was steady, regular as a heartbeat. It faded, returned, faded and returned again and again.

What came next were soft voices, the sound of his name, stories about him, and laughter. He listened as if they were voices on the radio from another room and he wanted to laugh along with them but his body had been detached from his mind. What came next was dread. Am I a vegetable? he thought. No, he could think so he wasn’t brain dead. That means I’m paralyzed. What came next was inconsolable despair.

What came next was light. Wilbur opened his eyes. He was in a hospital room, tubes and wires snaked all over his body and down his mouth. There was Jack, eyes wet with tears, calling out to everyone that his best friend had come back from the dead.

“It’s over, Will,” he said. “You stopped Murphy.”

“How long have I been out?”

“Three weeks.”

“Three weeks.” Wilbur closed his eyes. “I was run over by a pickup truck.”

“Hired by Murphy. Your hunch was right. He was Peter Masters and he recognized you as the cop who interviewed him when he was a boy. When you threatened to bungle up his development project, he figured sooner or later you would stumble onto his money laundering operation so he hired an ex-con working at one of his other projects to take you out of the picture. They’re under arrest!”

Jack showed him the newspapers.

“Money laundering?”

“Murphy launders drug money through his development projects for the Hells Angels.”

“How did they connect the hit and run to Murphy?”

“The driver worked at one of Murphy’s construction sites. He was an ex-con. Traffic cameras picked him up dumping the Ram and they were able to follow him on camera back to the motel he was staying at. When they picked him up, he sang like a canary and fingered Murphy. All of Murphy’s projects are cancelled forensic accountants are crawling all over them.”

“Hi, Grandpa.”

Wilbur’s grandson stood at the foot of his bed, chessboard folded under his arm. 

“Tyler,” he smiled.

“Feeling up to a game?” he asked.