"Anybody know what day it is?" he grumbled.
"Say what?" asked Jon Boy as he shuffled up to the Porsche and peered inside. “Oh man! Lookit, Mr. Darien! There’s a purse in there!" He looked around on the ground. "Somebody help me find a rock or something…”
“You big enough—just hit it with your fist!" called out one of the convicts from the shade along the side of the road. He and his partner fist-bumped in celebratory laughter.
Darien sighed. He took two steps, held the driver’s door handle and waited until Jon Boy looked at him. Darien arched an eyebrow, pulled gently, and the door opened.
"Dang," said the mountain of a man with the brain of a child. "Now why didn't I think of that?"
"I don't know, Jon Boy, I don't know," Darien muttered as he stepped aside so the behemoth could wedge his frame into the sweltering confines of the sports car. The vehicle dipped low on the driver’s side, and its shocks strained as Jon Boy stuffed his bulk into the driver’s seat. He muttered to himself the whole time about the treasure on the front seat.
Darien crossed his arms and watched a buzzard circle high up in the blistering, cloudless sky further west. As he watched, three more of the grizzly birds swooped in to join the slow spiral of death in the air. "Something died over there,” he muttered.
"Hey Dee," called Spanner, one of the three that came with him from Charleston. "I'm thirsty, man—what’re we gonna do?"
Darien shrugged while he watched the birds. "Look around you, brother. I bet most of these cars are unlocked, and it ain't like there's anybody here to stop us if they are locked. I bet some of these cars got something to drink or eat inside. If you're thirsty, just go look!"
Taking his own advice, he stepped across the lane to a massive black Ford F-350, wedged bumper-to-bumper with the cars in front and behind. He opened the passenger door with ease, put his mismatched boot on the step up, and hauled himself into the passenger seat. A wave of heat escaped the car and dried the sweat on his skin. He wrinkled his nose. "Just be careful—this heat’s making anything in these cars go bad really quick. Ugh—smells like something died in here!"
He ignored the banter between his crew as they argued over what smelled worse, feet or blue cheese. Darien searched the back bench, but found nothing of use except for an old, torn map, a screwdriver, and a few sticks of gooey, melted gum. He opened the wrappers and licked them clean, then sighed in gratification as the spearmint flooded his mouth. It didn't quench his thirst, but it was the next best thing.
Darien looked up from the empty glovebox through the crusty windshield. He spotted a billboard sign off in the distance that stuck out just behind the hedgerow of pine trees that lined the road. He couldn't tell what the sign advertised, but a yellow banner at the bottom mentioned an exit just half a mile up the road. Darien grinned and hopped down out of the useless vehicle. He didn’t bother to shut the door and whistled to his crew.
"Break’s over!" he announced, as he circled his hand over his head to round up the men who'd wandered off. “There’s an exit, half a mile up the road—that's our ticket outta this mess."
Jon Boy climbed from the Porsche, a brown leather purse clutched in his ridiculously large hands. He frowned at Darien, an expression likely to liquefy the bowels of most men who didn't know Jon Boy was little more than an overgrown 10-year-old.
"I see you looking at it, Mr. Darien. It's mine, you hear? I found it, it's mine."
"Get a load of that," one of the convicts said. He snorted as he shouldered past Jon Boy. His partner laughed and continued to peer into cars as they walked.
Darien stepped in front of the two escaped convicts and placed a hand square on the rude one’s chest. They both stopped in their tracks and looked down at Darien.
He’d never been tall and had grown used to people looking down at him—but now and then that simple look set him off. His anger was the reason he’d never been able to hold a steady job, why he’d lost his wife—and any prospect of a normal life—a long time ago. Conversely, that anger had kept him alive in more than one situation when he’d been outmatched by a bigger opponent. Darien jabbed the big convict in the chest with a stubby finger. What he lacked in size, Darien Flynt made up for in sheer strength.
"You best watch yourself around him, you hear? That boy’ll rip you in half with his bare hands. "
"Oh, yeah?" scoffed the second convict, who looked over his shoulder at the gentle giant. Jon Boy ignored him and happily dug through the woman's purse, completely oblivious to the rest of the world. "That a fact?"
Darien took a half step back and put his hands on his hips. "That's a fact."
"And why would he start something with me?" asked the rude one as he leaned close.
Darien’s stomach curdled at the smell of the man's sour breath. "He don't like rude people."
Jon Boy's head snapped up at the mention of ‘rude.’ He frowned. “He being mean, Mr. Darien?"
Darien held the convict’s eyes for a moment, then shook his head slightly. "No, Jon Boy, he's not—not yet, anyhow."
A shadow fell across them both, and the convict looked up to see Jon Boy tower over him, his shoulders at least half a foot wider than his own. "Good," the mountain said in a voice like thunder. "I don't like it when people aren’t nice." He looked
