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 attach�-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.