Larry's six feet of beef stick had run its course by the time they had managed to skirt the edge of Los Angeles. It also made everyone gaseous and sick, which couldn't have come at a worse time for them, because Larry was attempting to navigate the merge from I-5 to I-10. Burt and Turk shouting, "Where are we going? I-10! When? Real soon!" only made the situation worse.

After an emergency stop at one of the almost-a-towns outside the city, they pushed on until Indio, when the van informed Larry that it was once again sucking fumes. Muttering about lost time, Larry found a large truck stop outside of Indio, and pulled in.

The guys got out of the van, disheveled and wild-eyed. "Hey, let's grab McDonald's," said Turk, pointing across the street.

"Let's do Burger King," said Larry. "It's on this side of the road."

Everyone murmured their okays before heading inside for the bathroom and a quick stroll up the food aisle to stretch their legs.

D.J. came back out before Larry had finished filling up the van. "Hey, Lar," he said. "I know we're on a time table here, but what do you say to sitting down at the BK to eat? I know I could use a little rest from the road."

Larry looked at his watch. "We're already forty minutes behind schedule," he said.

"Yeah, but all we're going to do is sleep tonight, right?"

Larry shifted back and forth. "Well, I wanted to do a drive by and check out everything, first."

"Lar, it'll be, like, after nine when we get there, now. It'll be too dark. C'mon, what do you say? Let's not kill ourselves until we have to, all right?"

Larry scratched his head. "Okay," he sighed, "but we're still getting up early tomorrow. That means we eat breakfast while we work, too."

"Deal," said D.J. "I am craving the onion rings something fierce. Meet you over there." He set off walking the hundred yards that separated the truck stop from the Burger King.

#

After an extravagant dinner that included extra onion rings, D.J. got up and surreptitiously maneuvered himself in front of the group, first dumping his trash, then quick stepping out the door. He walked with Larry behind him and to the left, listening intently for sounds behind him. As soon as Burt and Turk came out, talking wildly about something, D.J. bellowed, "Shotgun!"

"Goddammit!" said Turk.

Burt bowed and relinquished his co-pilot's seat. "Well played, well played."

"Hoo ha," said D.J. as he leapt into the bucket seat. "This is living."

"Where were you when I had to hold the egg carton full of dice?" said Burt.

"One day, that seat will be mine," vowed Turk.

"Maybe," said D.J. "But not today."

"The size of your bladder, I wouldn't count my chickens just yet, I were you," muttered Larry, but no one heard him.

He grew more and more quiet as they drove. They didn't notice. Some people were just chatty before pulling a job, he supposed. He went over each phase of the plan, in his mind, over and over. When that got boring, he worked on re-memorizing the controls of the backhoe until he was confident he could operate it smoothly. The miles rushed by in a blur.

They crossed the state line at dusk. Arizona beckoned Larry, and he came to it, senses sharpened, concentration honed like an axe wedge. Total focus. Think about the job.

His friends noticed Larry's lack of speech and frown of concentration and mistook his demeanor for a simple lack of sleep. Only D.J. saw that something was amiss, and he quickly put it out of his mind. In turning around to tell Turk off, he glanced at Larry and noticed that, in the half-light, Larry was wearing the same expression he used when he was gaming.

Slowly, one by one, the van grew quiet. They were in Arizona, now. There was no turning back. This thing, whatever it was they were going to do, it was going to happen. In the quiet of the evening, the four friends listened to the Johnny Quest theme and pictured themselves as the hero of the story, a fedora-wearing, wisecracking, great-with-the-ladies kind of guy who thought with his fists and fought with his brains.

Turk saw himself standing alone in the light of the setting sun, a mysterious silhouette, as his three friends dug in the ground, singing Egyptian work-songs. He winced slightly, remembering all too late that the scene had already been filmed in Raiders of the Lost Ark. Then he shrugged to himself and kept right on going. Imitation really was the most sincere form of flattery, he thought.

D.J. pictured the fabulous apartment that his share of the money would buy, and he saw himself standing beside the fireplace, re-telling the tale of their narrow escape from the police to three of the hot, unapproachable Goth girls that came into the store all the time. One of them was waving around a Holly Golightly-length cigarette holder, and then D.J. realized suddenly that it really was Audrey Hepburn he was thinking about. He glanced at Larry, to see if he noticed, but Larry was too busy imagining Stercutus rolling a lot of critical percentile successes in his favor.

Burt wondered if the fake ID he made was good enough to get them into a club. He was sick of the smelly van, and wanted to shower and dance, in that order. Looking at his companions in the dim dark, he shook his head in defeat and wondered for the millionth time if they were going to end up in jail.