I watched the man in the white 10-gallon hat

case back and forth along the dusty sun-baked Texas roadside.

Cell phone pressed to one ear, his face lost under the shadow of the enormous hat.

He's been on that phone most of the morning, guiding the players to our destination.

Just to the east of the Guadalupe Mountains.

Ten Gallen says and nods.

Yes, sir. That's right.

2185 off 54.

Smiley to Weatherby to Novel. You'll know you're here when you meet my men.

Ten Gallen catches me watching him. He smiles that huge white-toothed grin of his and gives me a wink. I'm not a fan of that

wink. I'm not a fan of the man and I'm sure as shit not a fan of that

fucking ten-gallon hat of his. He looks like a Texas stereotype and not a good one.

10-gallon hangs up and slides his phone inside his white suit jacket because of course his entire suit matches that

fucking hat. Problem? I ask he shakes his head. The hat doesn't even slip a millimeter.

Nah, 10-gallon replies.

The drivers are trying to find us using GPS.

And I told them that GPS will not work this far out.

No shit, I think, but don't say.

He tips his hat at me.

Now it's my turn, Mr Williams, he says is there a problem my guys are getting Nancy I say they've been waiting in the trailer for two days

I shield my eyes from the morning sun despite already wearing dark sunglasses and a baseball cap.

It's not even ten yet, and the sun is a killer.

...