I leave the ATV near a new Buick LaCrosse and swagger across the lot. When I push open the glass door, Floyd’s talking to a customer beside a red Malibu. The showroom is smooth and glossy, the floor gleaming, the cars untouched by rain or salt or dirt.

I lean against the door frame, hip cocked, thumbs in my pockets, wait until Floyd notices me, and drawl, “Fancy meeting you here.”

His smile goes tight. “What do you want?”

“Just checking your sales pitch.”

“Excuse me,” he says to the customer, baring his teeth in another smile. “I’ll be right back.”

See? See what he’s really like?

Adrenaline highs are edgier than endorphin highs. I don’t move a muscle. Floyd shoves his face into mine. Lowering his voice, he says, “Get out of here.”

“Careful,” I say. “You wouldn’t want your boss to see the real you. Father and son—I mean, it’s kind of touching, isn’t it? How about a nice hug?”

For a minute I think he’s going to plough me regardless of the consequences. From heel to toe, the soles of my feet connect with the floor; inwardly I rehearse the first block.

“I’ll deal with you tonight,” he says, his eyes like ice chips. “Out!”

“Oh, before I forget—Opal asked me to give you these.”

I toss him the bundle of envelopes, crumpled from my pocket. He snatches them, turns on his heel, and strides back to the customer, who’s gazing at us in a puzzled kind of way.

Taking my time, I push the door open and walk past a row of Cobalts. Bet you 300 of my 330 dollars that the sale goes down the tubes.

*

AT THE end of the river trail, the first thing I see on Hilchey River Road is the garbage truck. I accelerate across the road as it pulls up beside our bin.

Docker jumps down from the tailgate. “Hey, Brick.”

I brake and slide to the ground. “You never phoned.”

“Was I supposed to?”

“Don’t you want to know why I quit?”

He’s standing still as a boulder. “You’ll tell me when you’re ready.”

“I just got the best of Snyder McIsaac. Out behind Sobeys.”

“Self-defense?”

“He started it.”

Docker strides over to the garbage bin, lifts it like it weighs nothing, and throws the contents into the open back of the truck. “Good for you,” he says with as much emotion as if I’m a heap of garbage.

“You don’t give a damn!”

Neatly he replaces the bin, lid on, at the edge of our driveway. “Let’s face it, Brick, I dragged you into karate. But if you’re not ready, you’re not ready. My mistake. Your choice.”

I say slowly, “Kumite takes two people.”

His face loosens some. “Kihon and kata—you can do those on your own.”