Page 74 of Spike

“How bad are we talking?”

“It started when Ihurt my back.” Gary settled his hands on his knees. “The resort doctor wrote meup a three-month prescription of Vicodin. My back pain only lasted three weeks,but I kept on taking the pills. At first, I felt like God had gifted me with asecond lease on life. The pills allowed me to preach for longer periods of timeand with more vigor than I’d had in years. My knees no longer ached, I sleptbetter, and I was in a better mood. Until I wasn’t.”

“Lemme guess. Theparty was over at the three-month mark?” I asked.

“The prescriptionwas for three months.” He grimaced. “I ran out after two. I was doubling up onmost doses by then, and the pharmacy refused to refill the prescription withouta new script from my stateside doctor. I was sick as a dog and crawling out ofmy skin, so I reached out to my doctor in Mexico, and he gave me the name ofsomeone in Portland who could help me.”

“Was then when youhad that terrible flu?” Sherri asked.

“He was dope sick.Going through withdrawals,” I said.

“It was the worstI’d ever felt in my entire life,” he admitted. “And I’ve had both malaria andDengue fever.”

“This guy inPortland. I assume he wasn’t a doctor,” I said.

Gary shook hishead. “He sold me one-hundred OxyContin, and sixty Vicodin. I gave half of theVicodin to Sherri, so she’d think she was monitoring my usage, but I had therest of the stash to use at my disposal.”

Sherri began tocry. “Oh, Gary, how could you?”

“I thought I couldmake that number of pills last for six months, maybe longer. It was all gone intwo, and I was back at the antique shop before I knew it.”

My blood ran cold.There was only one dealer who worked out of an antique store, and he wasdefinitely someone whose debt you did not want to find yourself in.

“You owe money toEdison?” I asked.

Gary nodded.

“Shit.”

Oleg Volkov was anantiques dealer who emigrated to the US from Russia in the nineties. He wasknown on the streets as Edison, due to the large display of old lamps andlighting fixtures in his shop window. Although his storefront looked likeChristmas all year round, Edison would never be mistaken as Santa Claus. He wastall, wiry, and incredibly strong. His head was shaved clean, and all visibleskin was covered in what looked like Russian prison ink. And if he snuck intoyour house with a baseball bat, it wasn’t to place it under your tree, it wasto break your kneecaps with. Edison, ran dope, women, and black-market athleticapparel, as well as the city’s biggest loansharking business. In fact, Edisonwould have been shut down a long time ago if two judges, and the city planningcommissioner weren’t all regular clients of his.

Oleg Volkov wasbrutal, merciless, and never forgave a debt.

Ever.

“The story getsworse,” he said.

“The only thingworse than owing Edison money, is not paying him when he comes to collect,” Isaid.

“Who is thisEdison person and why do you owe him money? And how were you spending all thismoney on drugs without my knowledge?” Sherri shrieked. “I take care of thehousehold finances and would have noticed any withdrawals.”

“You used yourchurch’s money, didn’t you?” I asked. “That’s the part of the story that’sworse.”

He nodded again,bursting into tears.

“How much?”

“It…itgets…worse,” Gary said in between the sobs.

“You can savethose tears for when you are begging for your congregation’s forgiveness. Rightnow, I need you to tell me how deep you’re in with Edison.”

“A…almostfive…five hundred thousand,” he stammered.

Sherri sat down onthe bed beside her husband.

I exhaled deeply.“You couldn’t have possibly spent all of that on pills.”

“It started withthe pills,” Gary said. “But, within a year, I owed more than I could cover, soI…I stole ten grand from the children’s ministry fund. No one noticed, so innine months, when I needed more money, I did it again.”

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