Pale sunlight cut across the top corner of the paper. Digits and letters scrawled into an address occupied the shaded portion of the card. I spun anxiously left and right on my diner stool thinking about where it had come from. I had found it in my office during a frenzied cleaning session a week ago, but the origin was hazy. A couple neurons lit when I thought about Merchant, and I attributed it to him somehow. Now, I swayed, p0ndering the significance of the nameless address. A voice from down the counter broke my concentration. “New house?” I looked up to find an eastern European man with sunken eyes and a hastily trimmed grey beard staring intently at my card. I asked him what he meant, and he replied. “Why would you have your address written on a card? You must have bought a new house, no? pazdravlyayoos.” I told him “not my house, but an address from an asshole I used to know. ” “I am looking for thees man…” he mutters into his coffee. Then, “We go!”  Blindly, I follow him towards the door of the diner. I’m not concerned, though I know I should be. It feels natural as I duck into the passenger seat of his Mercedes, and I see us pulling away in the reflection of the diner windows.
We pull up 20 minutes later to an adobe colored bungalow in the suburbs. It reminds me of Craig’s porch from the movie Friday. The Bolshevik opens the screen and knocks on the cheap metal frame. No answer, and he looks back at me with an inquisitive glance. Irreverently, he turns and nonchalantly steps through the jimmied door. I only hesitate for a moment, and then follow in his footsteps.
Inside is a sparcely furnished living room. Vaguely reminiscent of the Big Lebowski. Hardwoods with a thin blue rug. Other than the white loveseat, the only thing in the room is an oak tv stand with an old tube tv perched on the top. The tracking needs to be adjusted, and a gray strip loops endlessly up the screen. A dark haired woman is sleeping in the loveseat with her legs hangin over the arm rest. The reality of the situation begins to set in, and I start wondering what the hell we are doing here. Footsteps, and in from the bedroom hallway walks a balding pudgy man in his 40s. Not rage or recognition, but crisis comes across his face.
Luckily, the Russian speaks first. “You owe moeney. I am here to collect.” Final and echoing in the space.
The pudgy man reacts with a glance. He WANTS to RUN, but the woman is complicated. “I..I..” sigh. “I don’t have it.” He had not counted on this, and the situation set heavy on his already bowed shoulders. Wait. But I recognize this man. Without the glasses and a few pounds… Yes, I am sure. “Trent?!?” He looks over and the voice gives me away. The Russian is uncertain. He had not though this through, and the grim look concealed his calculations. I take a step forward and try to diffuse the situation. With approval from the Russian, I take Trent back towards the hallway.
We are back in the Bolshevik’s car, and the light posts speed past hypnotically. “
Back to the church.
Sullen guys in the arched walkway outside the knave.
Russian mob meetings
Corrupt priest
fight with another member and laughter at my tats
return to church.
Giant gilded hall with 40 foot organ
Alter boy in gang (19)
see corrupt priest follow him into a room
beating him. I sneakup with my knife Professional style
go down stairs. Covered with cops and swat team.
They are actually there for a police funeral.

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