pushes car out of stairs

The scents and sounds triggered a mental avalanche of memories and I shivered at the intensity of it. I almost didn’t notice the car that pulled up to the curb beside me.
It was an ancient hearse, a Caddy that must have been built sometime in the years immediately following World War II, complete with rounded tail fins. It had been painted dark, dark blue, and given a flame job in shades of electric purple. It wavered and bobbed drunkenly down the avenue, turned a bit too sharply toward the curb, lurched ahead with a roar of the engine, and then skidded to a halt with the brakes locked, missing the posts along the edge of the road, and the chains that hung between them, by maybe an inch.
“Will there be anything else, Sir Knight?” Cat Sith asked.
“Not right now,” I said warily. “Um. Who is driving that thing?”
“I recommend it be you,” Sith said with unmistakable contempt, and then with a swish of his tail, he vanished.

Cold Days Chapter 9, Page 75-76


My plan worked for about ten seconds—and then I slammed into a parked car. I was lucky that it wasn’t a large one. I mean, I couldn’t see it, but it bounced off the Caddy like a billiard ball struck by the cue ball. It also knocked the wheel out of my hands, wrenching it from my fingers and sending the Caddy onto another sidewalk. It smashed through a metal railing and then the back tires bounced down into a sunken stairwell.
I struggled to get the Caddy clear, but there was nothing for the tires to grab onto.
End of the line.

Cold Days Chapter 12, Page 112


“Briefly,” I said. I eyed the car. “Feel like driving?”
“Sure,” she said. “But . . . that’s pretty stuck, Harry, unless you brought a crane.”
I grunted, faintly irritated by her tone. “Just get in, start it, and give it gas gently.”
Molly looked like she wanted to argue, but then she looked down abruptly. A second later, I heard sirens. She frowned, shook her head, and got into the car. The motor rumbled to life a second later.
I went down the stairwell where the car’s tires were stuck, set down Bob’s skull, and found a good spot beneath the rear frame. Then I set my feet, put the heels of my hands against the underside of the Caddy, and pushed.
It was hard. I mean, it was really, really gut-bustingly hard—but the Caddy groaned and then shifted and then slowly rose. I was lifting with my legs as much as my arms, putting my whole body into it, and everything in me gave off a dull burn of effort. My breath escaped my lungs in a slow groan, but then the tires were up out of the stairwell, and turning, and they caught on the sidewalk and the Caddy pulled itself the rest of the way.

Cold Days, Chapter 13, Page 116