The Cabinet

By Albert D. Mason

Burti, a mean product of the mean streets he has called home, becomes a victim. His soul, however, is forced to suffer an uncommon vengeance.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Feb 21, 2012
• ISBN: 9781468538687

Albert D. Mason

N/A

Book preview

© 2012 Albert D. Mason. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 2/16/2012

ISBN: 978-1-4685-3868-7 (e)

ISBN: 978-1-4685-3869-4 (sc)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2011963737

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and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

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This book is printed on acid-free paper.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

CONTENTS

CAST OF CHARACTERS

ABOUT THE COVER

OTHER BOOKS BY THE AUTHOR

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CAST OF CHARACTERS

ABOUT THE COVER

The cabinet was made in the mid-1400s. It hung in the chapel of the Vila Covoni, San Dominico di Fiesole, Italy, until the mid-1950s, at which time it was purchased and brought to the United States.

OTHER BOOKS BY THE AUTHOR

The Meeting, The Prologue, The Blind Salamander, Eight Steps, Joseph, and children’s books Ooshu Escapes from the Zoo, Ooshu, and Dorothy’s Cricket

CHAPTER 1

Burti got up around mid-morning with a slight hangover. It must be the rum, he thought. The sofa belonged to his mother. He slept in her place from time to time. She used to leave a blanket for him but stopped long ago. He hadn’t given money to either her or his grandmother for years, nor did he feel that he should. He heard someone moving around in the kitchen.

Hey, Ma, I’m hungry!

Then go out and buy some food. We’re not feeding you. It’s enough that you sleep here. I’d like to take away your key, but I can’t wrestle you down to the ground and take it away from you.

What she said was not entirely true. He was her son, and although she knew him to be no good and admitted that he did not have one redeeming quality, blood is blood and she could not bring herself to buy a simple padlock or slide bolt to keep him out.

I don’t need you to cook for me. If there’s food in the refrigerator, I’ll just take what I want whether you like it or not. I don’t need you or your permission, he said with a scorning laugh.

It’s enough you sleep here. You’re not eating my food. If you try to get in this kitchen, I swear, I’ll hit you with a fry pan.

Burti ignored the threat, got up from the sofa, and went toward the kitchen. His mother blocked the way. He grabbed her by the upper arm and swung her hard to the side. She slammed against the kitchen counter, held on, and just stared at her son. She was scared. She knew he was capable of anything and suspected he might already be a murderer.

Burti was both advantaged and disadvantaged. He was too good looking. Because of his looks, women were attracted to him, and he found it easy to take their favors, including their money. If they didn’t give him money voluntarily, sometimes almost forcing it on him, he learned to con them out of it. Later, he learned to beat it out of them. If he had not been so good looking, perhaps he would have—out of necessity—gone in some legitimate direction. Burti was in his mid-twenties, a prime age. In addition to being good looking, he was nearly six feet tall, athletic, and virile.

His mother just watched as Burti opened the refrigerator, took out some food, and started to stuff it in his mouth. He threw the empty container into the sink.

Good shot, Burti, he said.

Another container fell on the floor. His mother watched the contents spill. Burti did not distinguish between breakfast and other meals any more than he distinguished between day and night, although most of his activities took place after dark. In the morning, when his mother saw him on the sofa, the first thing she did was hide whatever money she had, leaving but a few dollars in her purse for her son to find so he would not be suspicious that she had hidden any.

Burti stood by the open refrigerator door and continued to eat whatever tempted him. He kicked away the container that fell, sending it to the other side of the kitchen. In doing so, his stocking foot got covered with gravy. Burti looked at the sock and then at his mother, who was terrified. She did not move, not even a bit, for she feared him. On many occasions, Burti had struck her. On one occasion, he had beaten her, but that happened only once and a long time ago. She called the police, pressed no charges, but scared her son enough. She suspected that when it happened, he had been on drugs or needed drugs. She was deceiving herself though, for Burti didn’t take drugs. He abstained, but not because he thought it wrong. He abstained because taking drugs might interfere with his ability to sell drugs, his main source of occasional income.

Selling drugs was a hazardous occupation, for the customers were usually desperate and dangerous, as were his suppliers. Neither trusted Burti—and for good reason—so he had to be especially sharp to avoid a mishap. Neither the dealers nor the customers wanted to do business with him, although both did, but only from time to time.

His mother was taking no chances. She froze in place, hoping that her mother would not wake, for Burti didn’t much distinguish between the two and was just as apt to strike his grandmother as his mother.

Don’t just stand there. Go find me a clean sock. You’re good for nothing.

His mother slowly and carefully felt her way out of the kitchen, keeping her eye on Burti the entire time. She went looking for a sock. Good god, I hope I find one or who knows what he’ll do, she thought. She looked in a few drawers and found a pair that originally belonged to a man who had been her live-in for several years. Burti was unpredictable and exercised no control over his emotions or his actions. His mother was unsure about whether to give him a single sock or both. Something as simple as that could trigger a reaction. She decided to give him only one.

What do you think I am? You expect me to wear two socks that don’t match? It’s no wonder you could never keep a man. Get me two that match—and I mean now!

His mother got the other sock, handed him both, and backed out of the kitchen. As she passed through the living room, she spied his shoulder holster that held an automatic pistol; it was next to the sofa on the floor. Burti hardly ever went anywhere without it. It fit neatly between his left upper arm and his side, almost in his armpit. If he was wearing a sweatshirt or sweater, the holster was undetectable. The gun and the switchblade he kept in his right pocket were all that Burti needed to maintain his place in his society. He was quick to advertise the switchblade but never revealed the automatic, preferring to keep it in reserve in case of an absolute emergency.

Burti ate his fill, alternately stood on one foot, pulled off each sock in turn, dropped them on the floor, and went to the living room sofa to put the clean ones on. While there, he took off his blue sweatshirt, slung the holster over his shoulder and under his arm, and then tightened its belt around his waist. While doing so, he noticed his mother’s purse on the table that was across the room against the wall. She had carefully left it there so he would see it instead of searching everywhere. Burti went over, opened it, found the several dollars, and stuffed them in his pocket.

Where’s the rest? You’re holding out on me. You and your good-for-nothing mother. Give me the rest of the money!

Look, Burti, we were behind on the rent. I just paid it with my last paycheck.

His mother had worked for a long time for one of the large supermarkets, stacking the shelves. It was steady employment that she appreciated. The market also appreciated that she could work most any odd hours, even during the night. A few years ago, she got up her nerve and asked if she could work fewer night hours, for it was dangerous getting home at quitting time. The market agreed and also agreed to send her home in a taxi when she did have to work late. The money was low for the job was unskilled, but it kept her afloat. In addition, her mother got food stamps, but Burti didn’t know about the stamps. If he knew, he would have taken them from his grandmother and sold them. Burti’s mother’s paycheck and her mother’s food stamps were enough for them to live without anxiety. She even had a small savings account.

Paying the rent left me with almost nothing. You can see that. Paul from the little market down the street gave me credit until my next paycheck. Why don’t you go get a job doing something—anything? Ma, here, and me are living hand to mouth. We’re hardly getting by. If it were not for the landlord who has known us for a long time and Paul down the street, we’d be hungry every other day. Burti, leave me the few dollars I have left. I need them to get back and forth to work.

Walk to work, said Burti as he walked out the door, leaving it open.

CHAPTER 2

Burti left the building, turned, and headed toward the street with all the small stores. He knew he was low on money, low enough to need more. There was an old lady crossing the street not far away. He thought of her as old, although he had no concept of time as it related to life. To him, he was on this earth, and it existed for him and around him. Others shared a place in space but not a place in his emotions. He had friends killed, but it made no impression on him, nor did it impact him as a person. When the person died, as far as Burti was concerned, it simply left an empty space soon to be filled by another.

In years past, he thought, when I was younger and had no experience, I would have broken into a good run, raced by her, grabbed her bag as I passed, and then would have disappeared in the crowd. Those were the old days. Now I am more sophisticated. Sophisticated was a word he enjoyed using. To him, it meant being wise and worldly in the way of the streets.

Now, it seems to me the best way to get that bag is to walk up to her, give her a smile, offer to help her across the street, and while doing all this to slit the strap on her bag and quietly and without rush move in among a crowd of people. By the time she knows the bag is gone, I too will be gone. Well, I can’t do that now because my switchblade is too dull. It has to be sharp enough to make a slice with hardly any pull.

The first thing I ought to do is get this blade sharpened over at Greene’s. This was a hardware store that had been in the neighborhood forever. A part of its living was now sharpening knives for the various merchants in this and other neighborhoods. Greene’s had a few trucks equipped with the sharpening equipment. They would go to the same neighborhoods on the same day each week, find a parking space, and then visit the respective places and pick up their knives. After sharpening the knives on the truck, he would return them, collect the money, and return to the truck. For some of the larger merchants, he would take the