FATE. You can have good sense most of the time, take precautions, make good decisions, make a few mistakes and correct them, but once in a blue moon you screw up at the same time that other things go wrong—little things. Maybe Mick had just made a few mistakes, all at once. He could see that it wouldn’t take too many small things to turn his bad luck into a train wreck. He’d gone to the river park on the east end of town and reported the body. When he got back, he parked his dad’s Pontiac where he remembered it had been. His father noticed these things. People, not so much. Unless they were a danger to him. Being a crackerjack mechanic made it easy for him to get jobs. It also fit his hobby, restoring old cars. The Poncho was his latest, a ’72 Bonneville four-door hardtop that ran like NASCAR and looked like a rusted Batmobile. Ratmobile. The body and interior were always last in his dad’s restoration process and he rarely got to them before he was on to the next car. Dad, Tighe “Fitz”
