Once more, Joe Patroni returned to the warmth of his car and telephoned the airport. The Aéreo-Mexican 707 was still stuck in mud out on the airfield. His help was needed urgently.
At the moment, the scene around the wrecked tractor-trailer transport looked like a staged disaster for a wide screen movie. The arrival of a TV camera crew, a few minutes earlier, had heightened the stage effect.
Before he left to make his telephone call, Joe Patroni had carefully coaxed the tow trucks into locations which would give them the best leverage, together, to move the disabled tractor-trailer. As he left, the truck drivers and helpers were connecting heavy chains which he knew would take several more minutes to secure. But now, incredibly, the chains were removed, except for one which a grinning tow truck operator was handling as a portable TV camera focused on him.
“Who in hell changed the trucks? The way they’re lined now, all they’ll do is pull each other.”
“I know, Mister.” The lieutenant appeared fleetingly embarrassed by Patroni’s words. “But the TV guys wanted a better shot.”
“You just blocked this road an extra twenty minutes. It took ten minutes to locate those trucks where they should be; it’ll take another ten to get them back.”
“Now listen, mister. We’re glad to have help, including yours. But I’m the one who’s making decisions.”
“No!—you listen to me.” Joe Patroni stood glaring. “There’s an emergency at the airport. I already explained it; and why I’m needed there. There’s a phone in my car. I can call my top brass, who’ll call your brass, and before you know it, somebody’ll be on that radio of yours asking why you’re polishing your TV image instead of doing the job you’re here for. So, do I call in, or do we move?”