I had wrapped the tire iron carefully in towels, good towels, so it wouldn't mark him in any way or draw blood. I picked it up off the floor now with my right hand and swung, like a tennis serve, really, and caught him at the back of his pewter hair. Perfect, a perfect hit. He went over into the front seat, and all I had to do was pull him in, turn him--not so easy; he was heavy--and shut the door behind him. I looked carefully; he was still clutching the attaché--I knew he'd be awfully angry if we'd lost it--and gunned the car away from the curb. I don't think I even wondered if anyone noticed, and I guess nobody did. This was New York.
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We were going to my house; I didn't think much beyond that. He would be so happy, so relieved to be there. "I want to be with you," he had said so many times. "But you know I can't." And he had always smiled as he said this: "Steal me."
I had only done what he wanted me to do.
