After Dark

It was a typical, snowy February evening in Rochester, New York. I was properly dressed for the snow and for my date with Anna Rizzo, a pretty Italian girl with dark, expressive eyes, a pleasant figure, and a sweet smile. This was the Rochester of the 1960s, and I had asked her out to see a play by Edward Albee, both play and playwright having become a vogue. After the performance, an exhausting exercise in dramatic fireworks complete with crudities, we strolled from the Eastman Theater, through the drifting snowflakes, to Angelo’s Restaurant.

But just after we entered the restaurant, an explosion shook the glass in the windows. It occurred on a narrow side street across the way, and everyone in the place was shocked, bewildered, and left staring at one another. The police soon arrived, followed by an ambulance. The medics hauled away the late occupant of the exploded car—both car and occupant being in pieces. Anna and I each had an uneasy whiskey sour, and I called for a cab to take us to her house, then me alone to my apartment. Neither of us was in the mood for a goodnight kiss, though I gave it a try. After all, she was my special date and perhaps my future wife.

Details about the explosion crept slowly into the news. At first there was just the fact that it occurred, where and when it occurred, and the name of the victim. Later there was news of a bomb attached to the ignition and, even later, speculation that mobsters were responsible for bombing the car, probably seeking to remove an unwanted rival. It occurred to me that the bombing showed the same degradation of the soul displayed by the Albee characters—but philosophy wasn’t my field. Anyway, when the story finally took full shape in the news, it revealed that a mob boss, whose territory included Rochester, had died of natural causes. His death had led to a conflict among rival candidates for his chair, which had led to the killing of one of the rivals. This wasn’t surprising, given the known habits of the mob.

But why was I following the story so closely?—as a graduate student in Biochemistry, I had plenty to occupy my thoughts. Well, as it happened, the dead man turned out to be Anna Rizzo’s uncle, whom I had met just once. He was visiting her father, when I called on her at home. I still remember his firm Neapolitan face, his strong chin, and his piercing stare.

There were subsequent discoveries of dead mobsters, mostly along the deserted marshlands near Lake Ontario. For some reason, this procession of corpses had begun to worry me. And one day, I was sitting at my assigned desk next to my assigned laboratory bench in the science building near the quiet Genesee River, when a stranger entered the laboratory. He was gruff and swarthy and dressed in a snappy suit, tie, and starched shirt. The brim of his matching fedora was pulled down just above the eyes, and he reminded me of Anna’s deceased uncle.

“Did Anna spill the beans?” he said.

“How’s that?” I replied.

“Did she tell you about the family plans?”

“We usually speak of music and literature and love.”

“We don’t want nobody to know our plans.”

“I don’t give a damn about your plans.”

“You better stay away from her.”

That was it—my patience was gone. The one saving grace I had found in this weather-warped, snow-ridden town was Anna Rizzo—beautiful and passionate. What the hell was going on here?

“If she wants it that way, fine—if not, I’ll see her whenever I choose to see her.”

Ah, the courage of youth, standing up to the outfit, with its arsenal of weapons—big enough to blow holes in half the town. This street soldier replied by flashing a pair of brass knuckles.

“Look kid,” he said. “Don’t make me use these—or this.”

With the last words he opened his coat, revealing a shoulder holster that held a pistol—or was it a revolver? Without another word, he buttoned his coat, straightened his hat and tie, and departed. I returned to my world of formulas and principles that were accepted as eternal truth, later tearing myself away long enough to call Anna. A stranger answered and his voice was as gruff as that of the mobster I had spoken to earlier. He said that Anna wasn’t there. I wanted to know when she was expected, but the stranger said he didn’t know and immediately hung up.

There I was, holding the phone and wondering what was happening. Where was my favorite date and possibly my future wife? But as soon as I cradled the phone, it rang, and I picked it up to hear Anna’s voice.

“Hello—Wayne?” she whispered.

“Yes—Anna, what’s going on?”

“I have to stay here. My father’s holding a meeting. I can’t go home until it’s over.”

“Where are you?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“Why not?”

“It has to remain a secret until the meeting’s over.”

Why couldn’t she go home? She lived in a twelve-room house in Brighton, a fancy Rochester suburb. There was plenty of room in the house—for her and the meeting. Something odd was afoot, and I was just beginning to suspect what it was.

“All right,” I said. “Can we stay in touch?”

“Of course—I’ll call you every day.”

“Good—I’m worried about you.”

“Don’t worry, that meeting will be over soon, and I’ll be home.”

“All right,” was all I could say.

With it all, I had to get back to my teaching duties, I was overseeing an undergraduate chemistry laboratory and, in addition to studies and research, I had notebooks to grade. Training and teaching in science involved hard realities—I had to stay at my desk and my own laboratory bench. And that wasn’t made easier by the fact that Anna never called me back—not a day later, not two days later, not a week later. Finally, when I couldn’t stand waiting any longer, I called her house, and this time, her mother answered. She was a kindly Italian woman and a superb chef—ah, her Lasagne.

“May I speak to Anna?” I asked, after we exchanged greetings.

“She’s not here.”

“Is she on some sort of vacation?”

“Well—uh, she had to stay away for a while. But I don’t know where she is now.”

“I take it she was a hostage,” I ventured.

Mama Rizzo responded only after a long pause. “I can’t say.”

“You mean you know, but can’t tell me?”

“I can’t say,” she repeated, but this time with a sob.

“Are you all right?”

“Oh, yes, yes. I must tell you—I’m worried about Anna.”

“Why?”

“I can’t tell you.”

That was all I could stand. Anna was somewhere—but where? My resolve to get back to academic matters was weakening. But that little weakening stage didn’t last. February faded into March, and March melted into April, and by then, as the poet said, I was quite myself again. I was happy that the melting of the snow hadn’t revealed the remains of a once-beautiful Anna Rizzo—she of the soft voice, the comely figure, and the bedroom eyes. But I had to keep my mind on my work.

One evening of that April, while in the midst of preparing for my oral exam—a stand-up recitation before a panel of glib academics—I felt the need for some diversion to relieve a tired mind. And so, I went alone to see a movie. It was one of those arty things that seemed always to get better reviews than they deserved, this one made in some Balkan resort by the latest genius crowned by Bosley Crowther. After the movie, which bored the living hell out of me, I hiked to Angelo’s Restaurant, the same one Anna and I had frequented. It was a popular middle-brow place, and in a far corner, there were always three or four tables pushed together, all occupied by swarthy, well-dressed men assumed by everyone to be mobsters. I could now confirm this, since one of the swarthy diners was the same man who visited me in my laboratory.

Anyway, I chose a small table far across the room and gave my order to the waiter, a slender man of some years, but oddly, not an Italian.

“By the way,” I said, after he had jotted down my order, “Have you seen the girl I used to bring here?—Anna Rizzo?”

“No,” he replied, looking over his shoulder. “But I did hear her name mentioned more than once—over there.” Saying this, he moved his head and eyes toward the pushed-together tables.

After he returned with my roast-beef sandwich, pie, and coffee, I ate slowly and reflected. Of course, I had already guessed that her father, likely a contending mobster himself, had given her over as a guarantee that his contingent wouldn’t assassinate its rivals with guns or baseball bats—at least not while negotiations were in progress. But I was suddenly and once again troubled. I pictured her sitting in some arcane prison, among modern-day barbarians who founded restaurants and burned down those of competitors, who killed each other with explosives, if not with guns and bats, who spoke of honor, yet regularly betrayed one another, producing corpses to feed the fish among the lakeshore bulrushes.

Well, anyway, I stood for my preliminary orals and got by the whole silly business. One of my answers—it dealt with protein denaturation—absolutely thrilled one of my examiners. I felt an enormous easing of tension, realizing I had a real shot at getting my degree. And once again, I began mulling over the possible fate of my once favorite girl, Anna—not so much from a sense of loss, but simply as an intellectual exercise, a puzzle to be solved. By that time, I had become interested in another young woman, a blond and pretty chemist from Virginia. And one evening, I was having dinner with her at Angelo’s Restaurant, when in walked Anna Rizzo with an escort who looked Sicilian and was dressed in an all-too-familiar fashion. As Anna passed, she noticed me and looked hard at my date and stopped abruptly. After some consideration, she smiled and waved, and I smiled in pure surprise and waved back. Then she and her escort continued toward the pushed-together tables occupied by organized crime. This troubled me, but I now felt insulated from them and their habits of retribution.

Jenny Ewing was my date and new love interest. After the waiter presented the check, we dawdled over desert and coffee, discussing chemistry most of the time. I was more annoyed than pleased, when Anna approached our table.

“Hello, Wayne,” she said with an uncertain smile. “How are you?”

“Fine,” I replied as I stood up. “Long time no see.” Yes, I used that old line for want of anything intelligent.

“Well—I met a nice man and married him.”

“Oh?—my goodness. I must say, you look happy.”

“Yes—I met Tommy DeStefano—at a friend’s house. My family was very pleased with my marriage.” She said this last with special satisfaction, though I wondered how true it was.

“That’s a plus,” I said for some silly reason. “Did you take a honeymoon trip?”

“We took a cruise to Antigua and stayed there for two weeks.”

At this point, Tommy DeStefano arrived at the table, after a last laugh at the back of the room. Anna introduced him, his smile was genuine, and we shook hands. Jenny was impressed by this dapper young Siciliano in a tailored suit and paisley tie. I felt awkward in my cheap blazer and corduroy trousers.

“Good to see you, kid,” Tommy said. “I hear you’re a bright guy.”

“Well—I’m moving toward my goals,” I replied—a bit embarrassed.

“What more could you want?” he said, and then spoke to Anna. “I’ll go get the car.”

Tommy strode away, and I paid the check, left a tip, and the three of us, Anna, Jenny, and I, moved slowly toward the door, pausing to get our coats as we made small talk. But just as we pushed through the front door, there came a huge, but not-unfamiliar noise from down the street—an explosion. I was shocked, frozen momentarily, but Anna sensed immediately the source of the blast.

“Oh, no, no,” she screamed and hurried along the sidewalk.

“Stay here,” I said to Jenny. “I’ll see what’s happened.”

Just around the next corner, on a narrow side street, the exploded car sat smoking from its front end, with a small flame licking the grill. Tommy was a mess behind the shattered windshield and surely dead, once handsome, now bloodied and dismembered. A small crowd was cautiously gathering as the police and then an ambulance arrived. I was standing close to Anna, and when she collapsed, I was able to break her fall. Tommy was taken away in pieces. The medics revived Anna, eased her into the ambulance, and carried her to the hospital.

After they drove away, I was suddenly concerned about Jenny—still waiting for me at Angelo’s. When I got back there, I found her talking to one of the back-of-the-room habitués.

“Oh, Wayne,” she exclaimed, laughing. “This is Sam Croccetti. He wants to take me home.”

Sam gave me his best stare, and I had the temerity to stare right back.

“I’ll take you home,” I said to Jenny.

“Look kid,” Sam said, “I was talking to this lady. I’m the type of guy who takes what he wants.”

“People who take what they want are parasites.”

Should I have said this? It was true, of course, but Sam didn’t take kindly to the remark. He said nothing more, but looked at me askance, as though fixing me in his memory for future retribution. I took Jenny’s hand, and we went outside and found a taxicab. On the way home, I struggled to explain what had happened on that side street, but gave up and switched back to chemistry. She would read about Tommy’s exit in the newspapers. The cab dropped us both at her place, which was not too far from mine. For my efforts, I was blessed with a good-night kiss. In those days, a kiss on the first date was a genuine victory. How sweet they were—those kisses.

Anna had a brief stay in the hospital, and I visited her there. It occurred to her, but not to me immediately, that had I not been at Angelo’s, she would likely have left with Tommy and died along with him. She wept as she reminisced—yes, she was offered as a guarantee of peaceful deliberations between mob rivals. Tommy DeStefano was one of her guards. They had gone to high school together, and as the days of her captivity passed, they grew closer and closer. Then away they flew, first to a Justice of the Peace, then to Antigua.

As for me, I was happy to say good-bye to Anna. After all, I had a future in science, perhaps in a peaceful place with Jenny by my side. Ah, yes—despite the hard realities, I was still the romantic.