Chris had no faith in a divine being watching over him. He took care of himself. He knows the who's who, but he would murder anyone who supposed they could bury his name, steal from him, inform to the feds, or demand to do this or that because they doubted how in charge he was. Or, "in charge" could be rephrased as Chris being a wiseguy. All these things maintained a perimeter that people had to know. These things governed his life.

In an hour, Chris would be woke up by a phone call from the innkeeper. He was in a hotel. A few things had the cops looking everywhere for him and a couple guys. A cocaine transfer that went went wrong, someone got shot, and an hour after the fuck-up, somebody walked in a bar in Little Italy and tossed in a grenade... and then the sonofabitch shot a few bullets at the bartender. Chris knew the Colombians were heated and wanted to hurt somebody. The cops? They're here and there, but Chris was a big street guy, he just slipped there and moved to the next one.

In twenty minutes, the gangster would received his wake up call. He would get out of bed, go get his coffee, and get ready for the day. The TV was on from the night before, and there was half a $5 cigar in the ashtray. Chris was sleeping away, in his khaki pant with the belt wrapped inside the loops, when the concierge called him five minutes ear

He got out of bed, and remained in his slacks and put on a big, white tee shirt. He walked to the cabinet beneath the TV, retrieved his .45 cal pistol. He tucked it in the front of his pants and tightened the belt. He turned off the TV. He checked a few things out. He had two phones. He checked the messages, nothing. But he noticed a pager number, which was to a friend who run dope in the past, and who agreed to 56 months in prison. 

He called his partner in crime and they greeted each other tough guy to tough guy, and then they talked about business.

"I forgot about it," Chris said while he remembered. "I remember now. OK OK..."

He disconnected his personal cell phone. Then, by his bed, inside of the lampstand, he reached in and pulled out a small bag of cocaine. He dumped a small amount on the table. He got a credit card and pressed down to make the compressed flakes usable. Then, he used a money bill and ingested it. Next, he returned to the cigar and set it aflame. For the next hour, Chris begin to question himself.

Was there a God? Why was he thinking about God?... etc.