The Orientation of Dylan Woodger: A Central New York Crime Story

By Chiuba E. Obele

Solving mysteries is never easy. Dealing with an infuriated mob boss and acute amnesia only makes it worse.

Dylan Woodger is a college student who is captured and tortured by the mafia. After amnesia obscures the last three years of his life, Dylan learns that he has stolen three million dollars from a ruthless mafia boss.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Chiuba Obele
• Release date: Apr 26, 2022
• ISBN: 9798985146400

Chiuba E. Obele

Chiuba Eugene Obele is a poet, writer, and author of "The Orientation of Dylan Woodger: A Central New York Crime Story." He can usually be found reading a book, and that book will more likely than not be a crime fiction novel. Chiuba lives and works out of his home in Boston, Massachusetts. When not absorbed in the latest page-turner, Chiuba enjoys spending his summers vacationing with his parents, siblings, and nieces and nephews.

Book preview

PART ONE

As if I unexpectedly slipped down into a deep vortex, I am swirled around in a way that I can neither put a foot down, nor swim to the surface. Nonetheless, I will work my way out…

—René Descartes

CHAPTER 1

MY NAME IS Dylan J. Woodger. Somebody took away my memory. The last thing I remember is having my mother drop me off at Hamilton College in 2016. I woke up in the year 2019 and found myself being interrogated by the Utica Mafia. I apparently stole three million dollars from them. If I don’t tell them where their money is, they are going to kill me. Of course, I can’t remember anything other than starting freshman orientation. But it doesn’t matter because they think I’m lying. They are going to torture me, and I have to find a way to survive.

My mother and I were on our way to Hamilton College. We had spent the previous four hours driving through the interstate highway. She was hungry, so we got off at the exit to search for places to eat. We drove along the outskirts of Utica but didn’t see any restaurants, so we kept going farther into the city.

Compared to Boston, where I grew up, Utica is a small city with a population of only sixty thousand. It’s in the middle of New York State, four hours away from three major metropolitan cities. In other words, you need a good reason to travel to Utica. You wouldn’t go there just to look, and if you did, you wouldn’t like what you found—at least that was my assessment of the place.

Driving through Utica, you get the feeling that you’re stuck in a haunted city. There are cracked sidewalks and buildings with boarded up windows. Large swathes of the city are in a perpetual state of disrepair. And rumor has it that the water is poisoned with lead from dilapidated houses that are chipping lead paint. Much of the population is on public assistance, and the schools function as juvenile detention centers for welfare babies.

Despite its isolation, Utica has absorbed waves of immigrants from around the world, including most recently, the Bosnians. But in East Utica, you’ll encounter the city’s most storied ethnic group—the Italians, who gather on porches to smoke, drink, argue, and gossip. Historically, no other group in Utica has stressed family honor more than the Italians, for whom loyalty to family and friends trumps obedience to the law. These longtime natives have a myopic view of the world and know very little about life beyond their own neighborhoods.

Long ago, Utica was featured in New York Times headlines as the Sin City of the East, with seven houses of prostitution in a city of a hundred thousand. By the 1950s, Utica also acquired a national reputation for its Mafia activities. Newsweek famously branded Utica as the town the gangsters own… where the brothels and the call-girls operate under the tolerant eye of the cops… It is a town where the gangsters know the cops and where they know the politicians.

Utica was home to two legendary Mafia figures—Frank and Salvatore Barbone. Over a thirty-year span, forty-one unsolved gangland murders were thought to be the work of the Barbone brothers. The empire the Barbone brothers built started in the 1920s during Prohibition, when the streets of Utica were a breeding ground for bootlegging profits. Before long, the Barbone brothers had developed a local syndicate of the Mafia, with connections to crime leaders in New York City and around the world.

The Barbone brothers ran the rackets in Utica into the 1970s. But when Salvatore died of natural causes and Frank went into retirement, their empire went up for grabs. Dominic Bretti, a gangster backed by the Colombo crime family, took control of the streets until his bust for murder put him back in prison. A federal racketeering case in 1990 decimated what was left of organized crime in the area. It was a win for law enforcement sharks who had been circling the Mafia for years. After that, Utica would never again be a Mafia stronghold or have the position of prominence in the criminal underworld that it once had.

By the 1990s, Utica went from bloody glory to grimy desperation. With the local economy spiraling downward and home sales plummeting, arson gained popularity as property owners started burning down their homes for insurance money. Others just boarded up their homes and walked away. Those abandoned houses fell prey to drug dealers, who burned down property used by their rivals to take over turf. Meanwhile, profiteers purchased abandoned houses, insured them for a hundred grand, and proceeded to torch them. As a result, the arson rate in Utica was twice the national average. At its worst, firefighters battled two or three blazes per night, with forty-five percent of all fires ruled arson. This was a dark time in the city’s history. Residents still tell stories of when they would go to sleep with their clothes on, fearing their home would be the next to go up in flames.

When I arrived in Utica in August 2016, it was still seen by the rest of the world as a broken city. Concerns about unemployment, crime, and dilapidation were rampant. The nightly news carried stories of fires, street violence, and political scandals. State and federal aid to rebuild the city was only a fraction of what was needed. The really sad thing about Utica was that you could look at the abandoned buildings and see that in its heyday, it was a thriving industrial city. A hundred years ago, Utica was one of the great textile centers of the world. But the city inherited the grief familiar to so many Rust Belt communities, who experienced a loss of population and the flight of industrial jobs. Industries fled to other regions or nations where they could find cheaper labor. Subsequently, the population in Utica fell by nearly a half. What was left now was a hulking shell, a crumbling monument to that unfortunate decision America made in sending its manufacturing overseas.

This was the Utica I came to know. If I had known all this when I first stepped foot in Utica, I would have told my mom, who was driving me that day, to speed past the city, roll up the windows, lock the doors, and hold her breath until Utica was completely out of our view. But of course, that is not what happened. This would only be my first encounter with the city… it would not be my last. There are those who will never be happy with Utica. And there are those who wish they never stepped foot in it. But this much is clear: Utica would forever change my life.

Mom spotted a sign for a diner and immediately angled the car in its direction. The sign had once been white and red, but due to neglect it had become yellow and pink. I grimaced at the sight of it. Still, Mom parked the car and got out with her red leather purse tucked underneath her arm. Releasing a weary sigh, I stepped out of the van and followed her into the diner with low expectations. Dimly lit, the diner gave off an out-of-order vibe. The floor was scuffed and worn, and the place reeked of old cigarette smoke.

Mom walked up to the waitress. Hi! Should we just seat ourselves? How does this work?

The waitress, a twenty-something year-old with a helmet of brown curls and slumped shoulders, gave my mother an apathetic glance. Grab a seat, and I’ll be right over in a second.

Apparently, customer service was a no-go here. Then again, if I ever had to work at this diner, I’d be bored out of my mind too.

When we sat at the table, the cigarette smell became almost unbearable.

This place smells like a bar-room, I said. I grabbed the menu from the table and gestured mockingly, Wanna take a guess what’s on the menu?

Umm, let me guess—second-hand smoke?

No, they only offer that on Tuesdays, I replied, faking an apologetic wince to sell the charade.

Mom chuckled. She was an attractive brunette whose good looks attracted a lot of attention. Her bright white teeth certainly looked better taken care of than the ripped chair cushion on which I was sitting.

The waitress came up and took us both by surprise. Up close, I could see that she was kind of cute. She must have overheard us criticizing the diner. Mom quickly apologized.

We’re sorry. We didn’t mean to—

No need to apologize. We attract a lot of smokers. Our diner is one of the few places in the city where you can still smoke and eat. The waitress then flipped open her pad, ready for the business of taking our order. But Mom was surprised.

Wait… how can smoking in a restaurant be legal? I’m pretty sure that violates a city ordinance. Aren’t you worried that you’ll be fined?

The waitress cocked her head, squinting her brown eyes. Honey, this is East Utica. We’re not exactly known for following the law around here! Besides, the owner has a cousin who works for the health department. If we get cited, all it takes is a phone call.

Oh, okay. So umm… what do you recommend eating? Mom asked, raising her eyebrows and forcing a smile.

"Well, Antonio is our cook today. And for a Mexican, he makes a pretty good spaghetti alla puttanesca."

Mom was surprised again. Italian food? That’s not typical for a diner, is it?

The waitress laughed. You’re not at all familiar with Utica, are you, honey?

No, I’m not. But I’ll try that spaghetti dish.

The waitress then looked over at me, her painted red lips stretching into a smile. And what about you, handsome? she asked, "Is there anything special I can get you?"

I looked at Mom, instinctively bracing myself for her response. Excuse me… are you flirting with my son? she said, blinking in surprise.

No, ma’am. I was just giving him a compliment.

Okay. Because for a second it sounded like you were flirting with him.

I rolled my eyes. Mom, please. Will you leave this poor woman alone? She was just giving me a compliment.

Embarrassed, I glanced at the waitress. Sorry. My mom is just being protective. I’ll have some coffee, please… with cream and Splenda.

That’s okay, honey. I’m the one who should be saying sorry for getting your mother upset. And don’t worry about paying for the coffee. It’s on the house.

Before the waitress walked away, Mom tried to sneak in a last word. You know, giving out free food still qualifies as flirting!

The waitress smiled and quickly hurried off toward the kitchen. I shot my mother a discouraging look.

What? she said. Just because you inherited your father’s good looks doesn’t mean I have to watch women flirt with you.

Dad’s good looks? I said. Well, that’s one thing he was kind enough to give me before he—

I suddenly paused, staring at the table. Those awful memories were coming back to me. In that moment, it was like I was watching my dad suffer in the hospital all over again, knowing that he was closer to death with each passing day. The whole time I watched him die, my mother was nowhere to be found.

What brings you to Utica?

For a moment, I thought I was hearing Dad’s voice, speaking through my memory. But I turned and quickly realized it was someone else. It was an elderly gentleman sitting behind us. He was watching us through thick tortoise-shelled glasses and wearing one of those cheap zip-up jackets that looked like they were made of parachute material. The old man was wearing a full tracksuit despite the heat outside.

I beg your pardon? I asked.

What brings you to Utica? Where are you guys coming from?

We’re from Boston, Mom replied. I’m dropping my son off at Hamilton College.

"Hamilton College? Well, well… you must have a lot of money. That’s no cheap education. Tell me, what does your mom do for a living?"

As soon as the old man asked that question, a feeling of disgust came over me, a disgust that had built up from being told the same lie since childhood.

"Sir, I’ve been trying to figure that out for a while. I’m sure my mom can answer that question—truthfully, I hope."

The green in my mom’s eyes looked more vibrant than usual when she angrily stared at me. For a second, I wondered if she would launch up from her seat and smack me. Just at that moment, I felt the impact of the old man’s hand, hitting me across the back of my head. I grabbed my head and turned back at him in annoyance.

What the hell, old man! What was that for?

That’s what you get for disrespecting your mother!

Mom, you see that?

Thank you, sir, for sparing me the trouble, she said gratefully. Not every child can appreciate a mother’s sacrifice.

Mom then turned to the old man, saying, To answer your question, I work as a travel agent.

Oh, really? Do you get to travel much? the old man asked.

Well… every so often.

And are you happy?

I’m good at what I do, and that’s all that matters. People respect me for my expertise, even if my son doesn’t.

Looking at my mother’s smug façade, I thought about exposing her truth. Let me explain. When I was ten years old, my dad discovered that he had pancreatic cancer. He was expected to die within a matter of weeks. And despite this, Mom continued making business trips. To this day, it is unclear what she was doing. But I remember the look on Dad’s face as he lay on the hospital bed. "Where’s Sarah? Where’s your mother?" he cried, "I don’t want to die without seeing her. Where is she?"

I pleaded with him. "Please hang in there, Dad. She’ll be here."

Mom showed up the morning after, but by then, she was too late. My father had died crying out for her. I still remember my aunt—my father’s sister—confronting my mother, "Where the fuck were you? How could you leave him to die like that?"

Mom didn’t look ashamed. Tearless and defensive, she responded, "I tried to cancel the trip, but I had to be with my client. Later, she softly explained to me as much as she could. He knew how much I loved him, and he knew that I needed to do whatever was necessary to provide for you. And he would have done the same thing. Listen to me, Dylan… we're born alone, and we die alone. Death happens to all of us. It’s just the way it is, and we have to move on."

I would have accepted that nugget of wisdom, even at that early age. But her explanation for not being there didn’t make sense. The thing about my mother is that if you met her, you'd like her. Everyone did. She was bright, funny, playful, and vivacious. You would never think that she was capable of being so cold and uncaring as to abandon her husband. There had to be some explanation for why she left Dad to die alone. But she never gave any explanation, other than needing to be with a client.

"Who was your client? my aunt had asked. What kind of person wouldn’t understand that you had to be with your dying husband?"

"You know I can’t tell you that, Mom replied. The client expected me to travel. And I won’t disclose any names. What’s done is done."

Suddenly, the waitress returned. She walked up with my mother’s dish. "Okay, spaghetti alla puttanesca coming right up for you. She then turned to me and grinned with her pale cheeks turning rosy. And for you, cutie pie, a cup of coffee."

I looked down at the table. The waitress had carefully placed a napkin with her phone number written on it.

What are you looking at? Mom asked, lifting herself slightly to see what I was smiling at.

Oh! Umm… nothing. I covered the napkin with my forearm.

A few minutes passed, and I was already starting to regret not ordering actual food. But there was likely to be catered food waiting for me at Hamilton. I was looking forward to that… that and meeting cute girls. And look at me, I was already starting to collect phone numbers! I was pretty pleased with myself. Women told me I was cute in a quiet kind of way, whatever that meant. But all I saw when I looked in the mirror was my dad’s sandy brown hair and square jaw with my mother’s green eyes.

At that moment, I noticed a portrait on the wall.

The food here is to die for.

Mom looked up. What did you say, Dylan?

Look over there, at the painting of that guy on the wall.

Mom turned around, saw the painting, and read aloud: In memory of Joey Cazza, 1917–1982.

The metal plaque beneath the portrait worked well to capture the man in it. He was a guy with salt-and-pepper hair, a curled mustache, wild eyebrows, and dark eyes. He appeared to laugh at us from his special spot up there on that old, stained wall. And he wore a pink suit. Joey Cazza was definitely Italian, both in name and in fashion.

Mom turned back toward me. It’s probably some guy who used to own the diner.

Mom, you missed the most confusing part. It says right underneath, ‘The food here… is to die for.’ You don’t find that a little creepy?

It’s not meant to be creepy, kiddo. It’s supposed to be a joke, the old man said from the table nearby. I was starting to get annoyed at how easy it was for him to overhear us.

"Joey Cazza used to be the owner of this establishment. He slept with the wife of a mafioso and was murdered right outside this diner. Legend has it that when the police arrived, his final words were, ‘The food here is to die for… literally!’"

The old man erupted in laughter, in what was meant to be an amusing quip. I wanted to laugh with him, but I felt sorry for Joey Cazza. Poor guy got whacked for cheating with another man's wife.

Mom turned to the old man. And what happened to the wife? she asked.

Her husband gave her two options: become a nun or go to the psych ward.

The old man started laughing. I laughed with him. Mom looked disgusted and narrowed her eyes at me. I don’t think that’s funny, she said. I then felt the toe-end of her tennis shoe hit my knee as she crossed one leg over the other.

Can you tell me more about the Mafia? I asked eagerly. For me, hearing these stories had the same thrill as listening to ghost stories around a campfire.

Oh boy! There are so many stories I can tell you. I know for a fact that a former Gambino soldier is living in this neighborhood. He now works for the state. He will tell you he’s Irish, but we know his real deal! Am I right, kid?

The old man and I started laughing together. He continued, "Of course, anyone who’s been around here long enough remembers the days when the mob ran Utica. I’m talking about the real mob—not these cheap wannabes running around town. These greaseballs can’t even form complete sentences, let alone pronounce La Cosa Nostra."

I turned to Mom and whispered, Our thing.

What’s that, kiddo? the old man asked.

"I was just telling my mom. ‘La Cosa Nostra’ is Sicilian. It means, ‘this thing of ours.’"

I appreciate the translation, Mom said, using her fork to wind up her spaghetti, but I know what it means.

The old man continued, "These days, the word ‘Mafia’ means something dirty. But if you study history — specifically the history of Sicily — you’ll see that the Mafia started as a way of protecting families. Over time it became a criminal enterprise, but at its core foundation it was about protecting family and honor. That’s why you have to be real careful when you betray an Italian."

And why don’t you ever want to mess with an Italian? I asked

The old man answered with a devilish smile: "Because revenge is as much a part of our religion as Catholicism… That’s why you never wanna cross an Italian."

A chill crawled up my spine. The old man must have noticed my discomfort because his smile ebbed, and he glared at me.

Anyways, he said, it was nice talking to you. Have fun at college. And go make your mom proud.

As soon as the old man walked out, I said Wow, Mom. That guy was fucking scary toward the end.

Mom wiped her mouth with her napkin before responding. Yeah, Dylan. I know.

Anyways, when are you gonna be done eating? C’mon, we’re so close to Hamilton.

The allure of college was making me antsy. My leg jumped impatiently. Even the cute waitress’s phone number was crumpled up and forgotten. Nothing mattered except getting to Hamilton.

All right, Mom said, smiling in amusement. Let’s go. She flipped some of her wavy brown hair over her shoulder and uncrossed her legs. With a push backward on her chair, she stood up.

We checked out at the counter. Just as we were leaving, Mom tapped my arm with her sharp nail and said, Aren’t you forgetting something?

And what’s that? My hands automatically went to my pockets to check for my phone and leather wallet.

The waitress’s phone number, she said. Oh, you thought I didn’t notice, huh?

I blushed in embarrassment. Mom winked at me, wearing a knowing grin that made me avert my gaze. I looked around to see the waitress waving goodbye. I replied, That’s okay. She’s not my type. But Mom, thank you for looking after me.

We got back into the car and continued our journey to Hamilton College. I didn’t even spare a glance back at that grungy diner where it all began.

Once we left the diner, we drove from Utica to Kirkland. Kirkland is one of Utica’s most affluent suburbs and has a nice, walkable village called Clinton. Clinton is a quaint, historic village known for its cozy country inns, antique shops, and breweries. A short distance from the business section of Clinton, perched on the summit of a lofty hill west of the village, is Hamilton College.

Dylan, you aren’t wearing your seatbelt, Mom mentioned while driving.

I ignored her, choosing instead to focus on the brochure in my hand.

What are you reading that’s so important that you can’t be bothered to put on your seatbelt?

It’s a welcome brochure. I started reading it out loud, "‘During the orientation process you will get to meet with people who live in your same residence hall. You will play games, tour your campus, eat together, and maybe even hang out for activities in the evening.’"

Mom laughed. So basically, it’s summer camp for college students.

Well, when you put it that way, it sounds even more terrible.

We reached an intersection and stopped at a red light. My thinking was suddenly interrupted by a small thud. It was the sound of the passenger door unlocking. When the traffic light changed, Mom took her right arm off the steering wheel and pointed to my chest.

You’re not wearing your seatbelt, she said again.

Before I had a chance to react, she pressed her foot against the accelerator. The momentum slammed me back. Mom then jammed on the brake. My chest was instantly thrown against the dashboard. I held my hands out, to keep my head from slamming into the windshield.

Mom! What the hell was that for? I shouted, feeling a tinge of pain in my neck from the sudden bracing.

Mom was laughing, her head cocked a little to the side as she gave me a told-you-so type of look. You see, Dylan. That would’ve been far less dangerous had you worn your seatbelt.

I shrugged. Why did you have to unlock the door?

I thought about reaching across to push you out of the car. My plan was to leave you and then speed away.

Why do I have the feeling that you’re being serious?

Sometimes my mom was just plain weird.

I continued reading the welcome brochure, only this time I read it to myself. Freshmen orientation is a rite of passage for every incoming college student. From the moment you arrive, you are immediately surrounded by hundreds of students chanting pep rally anthems. You’re bussed to different activities, expected to participate in various events, and hopefully make a few friends. They tell you that you shouldn’t feel pressured to make instant friends or forge lasting connections right away, but colleges actively engineer these orientation activities to help you meet and bond with people. I could already see myself running into people plastered with phony smiles. It made me cringe just thinking about it.

Mom.

Yes, Dylan?

What was orientation like for you when you went to Hamilton?

Mom took a few seconds to think and began reminiscing. Orientation was difficult for me. When I started out at Hamilton in the eighties, I felt optimistic about my ability to make new friends. I introduced myself to people, had some pleasant albeit awkward conversations, and exchanged phone numbers.

So what was the problem? I asked.

"Well, after a few days, I noticed a shift in how people were socializing. People who just were strangers a few days ago started acting like close friends. They would show up to events in packs, sitting together and giggling about inside jokes. They started going out to parties at night, while I stayed in my dorm reading books. I thought, ‘it’s literally been seventy-two hours. How could people have friends already?’"

My stomach turned a little with nerves, seeing as my mom’s social skills were probably better than mine. What happened after that? I asked.

I started to get anxious that groups would cement themselves as cliques, leaving me as an outsider. The most frustrating part was that I just didn’t know what I could have done to make friends with the apparent ease that everyone else could. After orientation ended, I felt like I never wanted to talk to anyone ever again.

That was until you met Dad, I said, feeling the corners of my mouth lift up slightly.

Yeah. The second semester of freshman year, I decided to stop eating alone, and I randomly ended up sitting next to your dad. It was at that moment that I became smitten with this tall, handsome boy from Boston. I spent many wonderful moments on campus with your father. He was like you in a way.

My smile widened. I could almost imagine Dad sitting with us in the car. As she spoke about him, my mother’s grip on the steering wheel lightened.

She continued, I realize that the transition from high school to college can be nerve-wracking. Everything moves so fast. It seems like everyone is adjusting faster than you. You start to feel like you don’t belong, and maybe you never will. But your orientation doesn’t have to be as challenging as mine was, just as long as you bring the right attitude. You should look at orientation as your chance to make a first impression. The people you meet at orientation can turn out to be your best friends. I mean, look at how I met your father! For all you know, the person sitting next to you could be your soulmate. The only way to find out is to talk to them, Dylan.

I paused for a few seconds, before responding. Mom, I appreciate the sentiment. But most of the people I’ll meet probably won’t end up being my friends. It doesn’t matter. I’ll have four years to make friends.

But Dylan, college life will be over before you realize. You should try to make some memories while you still can.

Mom looked away from the road to give me a searching look. I hated it when she looked at me like that. It was like she was trying to peer into my head and figure out the quickest way to get me to agree with her.

Yeah Mom, but I don’t trust people who are over-eager to be friends. People can be so desperate for friendship and for someone to talk to, just so that they don’t have to feel alone. There’s so much pressure to avoid being alone.

Well, aren’t you worried about being alone, Dylan? she asked.

Me? No! I can go days without seeing people and still feel great. I actually prefer to be alone. There are times when I can be social and mingle a bit. But truthfully, I’d rather be by myself.

"That’s