I glance at the door to the apartment and also the little door inside the garage right next to the Jeep. Over the last few minutes, riding through the alley, we have seen a lot of people getting out of their cars, returning from work, all potential witnesses. My hand finds the chrome car-door handle, warm and slippery with my sweat. But I hesitate.

Do you really think it was a smart idea to come during daylight? Maybe we could come back after it’s dark.

A smile comes across his face. Junior’s scared.

Fuck you.

Greta gets nervous beside me and I pet her to calm her as I reach over with my other hand to open the door. I almost stumble as I step onto the crusted asphalt.

He calls back to me. Take it with you.

What?

The tire iron, he says, grinning.

I was going to grab it.

Sure.

Wind flaps my shirt and the fabric feels stiff against my skin. I lean into Tomas’s Explorer, my ear brushing against Greta’s leg fur. The shaft is heavy and cold in my hand and I almost stumble as I back onto the crusted asphalt, trying to keep it out of view by letting it hang by my leg.

I told you I was going to grab it. Can’t you listen?

That makes a lot of sense, Junior. It was lying right next to you.

I didn’t want to hurt my back.

Yeah, you’re so old and have worked so many hours in that suit behind your important desk.

Father Ryan says you should watch out for straining even when you’re young. He has back problems. He doesn’t work behind a desk.

Junior, you hang around old people too much.

Yeah, old people like you.

I back off ready for a blow, but he smiles and shakes his head, then goes all cool again and stares down the street and peers up at the apartment’s window. You’d better go, man, he says.

Greta stares at me from the front seat, not sure if she should follow, but I do not call and she sits back down. I raise the iron from its hiding place against my leg, its weight straining my arm. Greta watches it carefully.

I cross the alley. My knees are weak. I barely seem to have the energy to keep the rod from falling out of my fingers.

Above I see his lit window—a sliding kind, the type without a pane—crusted white with salt. Like a shower door it is steamed up, so probably they cannot see anything but a blur. I duck into the garage, sheltered from the wind. I peer in the Jeep to check for a red alarm light. Nothing.