A book about a monk should begin with a confession and here is mine.

At age 18, I tried to become a monk. The abbot listened to me for five minutes, told me I had no vocation and pointed toward the door. By this time he’s probably gone to heaven and I’m lucky I didn’t go to jail because shortly thereafter I stole a milk truck in Manhattan. I didn’t need the milk, only a ride back to my apartment, an act not inspired by the Holy Spirit but by the kind of guys I hung out with, several of whom did go to jail. They're the template for Tommy Martini, raised in a criminal family but really, like me, just a quiet guy who wants to be left alone. He lives in the only monastery that would accept me, which I built myself between the walls of this book.

Martini prays, meditates, chants with the other monks, and takes his anger management medicine until the death of his uncle, a crooked priest. He inherits his uncle’s house and his uncle’s enemies of which there are many, as Father Vittorio has used his vocation to pursue his true calling, which is crime. Further complicating matters is the location of Father Vittorio’s house – in a celebrated desert down inhabited by UFO enthusiasts, counterfeit Christs, psychics, channelers, and a pair of lovely ladies who don’t take Martini’s vow of chastity seriously. That’s the problem with a vow – as soon as you take it, you'll be tempted to break it.