Free Point Doom by Dan Fante

advertised her two (what I was sure must be) aftermarket D cups.

EIGHT
    A t 9:20 P.M. I was done for the day. A thirteen-hour shift. The headache that had started five years ago in the East Bronx when I killed those people had never gone away, except when I was drunk. Today it was little more than a dull thump. Livable. I had five hundred dollars in cash in my pocket and had sold one more car, a two-year-old Camry, and made a total of three thousand five hundred for my first three days in the car business.
    With mom’s Honda parked and locked up safely around the corner, I was on my way across the darkened car lot to get in my demo Corolla, when Fernando stepped out of the shadows and into my path.
    “Ho kaye, chithead,” he snarled, “now we gonna zee whaz wha.”
    Fernando outweighed me by sixty or seventy pounds and was three inches taller. He gave me a two-handed push in the chest. I was knocked off balance, but regained myself. Before I could straighten up fully, he landed a nice flush right to my jaw and I fell back against the Corolla.
    But, to Fernando’s surprise, rather than go down or cover up, I straightened myself and stood there smiling. Then I lifted my hands and was ready to go. What fat boy didn’t realize was that I like to fight and that long ago in New York City I discovered that I have the adrenal system for it. I’m like a boxer in the ring. When the juice begins to flow I can be hit, but the pain is minimal, not unlike a guy in a ten-round bout at the Olympic Auditorium. I simply ignore what hurts.
    “C’mon, you potbellied cocksucker, try that again,” I said, still smiling, waving him toward me.
    Fernando made his next move, a wide right. I easily stepped back and it missed me by a couple of inches. After that I got in a series of three strong palm thrusts to the face followed by a nice kick. My foot found its mark and Fernando grabbed his crotch.
    In some cases—in the past, in my private-detective days—I have taken pleasure in hurting people, but I didn’t want to scuff up Fernando too much or break his nose or knock out any teeth, so I decided to take my time.
    My best punch as a boxer is my left hook. I landed two of them, a few seconds apart, flush on his cheek. Fatboy reeled on his heels and went down. I could have kicked him nicely in the face but I decided instead to step back and wait to see if he had any spit left in him.
    Ten yards away, Max, with a thick key ring in his hand, had walked outside and was just locking up the showroom. He could hear us scuffling.
    “Guys,” Max yelled, walking toward us, “that’s it! Knock it the fuck off!”
    Fernando got to his feet and straightened his shirt. I was pleased to see that I hadn’t made him bleed. That would come later, if he still wanted more.
    “We juss talkin, boss, iz all we beeng doin,” fat boy said cheerily, still trying to catch his breath.
    I pointed a finger at Fernando. “Your Latino salesman thinks I skated him, boss,” I said. “He says that he wants to kick my ass. And, well, I’d sort of enjoy hurting him a little more, so if you don’t mind, we can settle this after you leave.”
    “Shut up, Fiorella,” Max snarled.
    “Then tell fat fuck here to back off before I get angry and really do some damage.”
    “I said, shut up, Fiorella, if you want to keep your job!”
    Then I turned back to Fernando. “Okay, moron,” I said, pointing a finger, “how ’bout me scattering a few of your teeth in the driveway? You up for that?”
    Max put his hand on my chest. I let him push me back. I had no interest in losing my job over a brawl.
    “I said, that’s it!” Max bellowed.
    FIVE MINUTES LATER the deal was settled. Max ordered me to give Fernando two hundred and fifty bucks out of my salesman’s cash spiff on the 4Runner. A settlement.
    I refused. “No goddam way,” I said. “I made that money fair and square. House rules. No goddam way!”
    Then Max tried another angle. He decided that Fernando