The Public Works                                                                                              

    Dwane Huckins stopped the truck opposite a late model black Buick that
had slid off the road into the shallow gutter. Though on the other side of the
highway, the car appeared to have been traveling in the same direction as the city plow. There was no evidence of a spin. The car didn’t look that badly stuck. 
    A man had gotten out of the driver’s door and looked questioningly
across at the city plow. 
    “We can’t leave him there,” related Bob Garnett. “He’s going to be right
in our way. Let’s see if we can push him out.” 
    Dwane continued to look across the road. “Wait here a minute. I want
to take a closer look.” Dwane started to open his door. 
    “At what, for Christ’s sake. That ain’t no white Cadillac.” 
    Dwane stepped down to the road as the driver of the other car, a tall, well
dressed man wearing a black top coat, started across to meet him. The pair walked back to the Buick. Dwane walked around the car, then stuck his head in the driver’s side window. The man kept talking and gesturing at the plow truck. Dwane stood, nodded, walked back to the truck and got in.
    “What’s going on?” Bob wanted to know. 
    “Up with the plows. We’re going to push them out.” 
    “So, let’s get out and do it.” 
    “We can’t. They’re on glare ice.” 
    “Well, we got plenty of sand.” 
    “I don’t want to take the time. Will you pick up the damn plows?” 
    “We can’t push him with this. What the hell’s the matter with you? We’ll
wreck his Goddamned car.” 
    “Look, I’m going to plant the tip of the front plow dead center of his
rear bumper and hope for the best. Besides, I don’t think he gives a shit and
I certainly don’t.” 
    “Well, he will later when he looks at his car. Then we’ll be fucked. Why
don’t you call in for a wrecker?” 
    “Goddammit!” Dwane was obviously getting frustrated and angry as he
leaned across and grabbed the lever that operated the front plow. 
    Bob’s look was still one of disbelief, but he was getting angry himself.
“All fucking right!” he barked as he pushed Dwane’s hand away and raised
the plows himself. “I’m still the wingman in this truck! Who the hell’s in that
car anyway? It ain’t this Nevis guy is it?” 
    “No.” Dwane backed the truck diagonally across the road and approached
the rear of the Buick. “I’ll explain it later,” he added. 
    “Yeah? Well, I’ll be here waiting.” 
    Dwane inched the truck forward. “Put it down a little,” he ordered. 
    “I can see it!” emphasized Bob as he complied. 
    With the plow centered on the rear bumper Dwane gave the truck a little
throttle. The Buick’s wheels were spinning and finally the car began to move.
    Suddenly, the car shifted sideways a foot or two. The plow tip scraped its rear,

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