Sixteen hats on the table, set down in front of their owners, each as meaningful as words on a page. There’s Maggie and Maggie, snipers both, with their black and white brims. Trick is knowing which Maggie’s which. The one with the black hat’s sweet as pie. One in white has the devil parading around her twisted little heart. Knowing is living. Daddy has taught me that much.

Beside them, Antonio Rowan. Looks like he spent all morning kicking his hat through the sticks to get it properly dusted. The man is a legend, as good at talking as he is at keeping the right people quiet. He’s even going at it now. Telling a story about a time and a place.

The hat across from his is as pristine as its owner. Gale Gusto doesn’t have a speck of dirt on her. I wonder how she got here, which street she asked them to shake the dust out of before she agreed to sidesaddle her way into town for a meeting. She doesn’t smile, but when you’re as rich as she is, there are only so many folks you have to play nice with.

I know all their names, their favorite drinks, too. These are our people, every rotten one of them. And, of course, there’s Daddy. The only one in the room who sits taller than me.

His hat is a brown brim with a leather braid snaking quietly around the crown. There’s a little tear right of center, noticeable, but no one knows the story. The brim edges up on one side because of how often he lifts that eyebrow in curiosity. That’s how he’s always been. A man of questions. He sat me on his lap when I was five and said the man who asks the most questions gets the most answers. Knowing is living. I stopped being so quiet after that.

“Well,” he says, and that one word gives Antonio Rowan’s story a new ending. The man falls quiet. Everyone else follows suit. Daddy sets a hand on his hat. “Shall we get started?”

“About time,” Gale Gusto replies. “I’ve business to attend to.”

Daddy smiles a trademark at her. “That you do, Gale. We all do. Welcome, friends.” That word is a stretch, but he makes it sound fitting enough. “I imagine you’re awfully curious about such a gathering. Deposed generals, oil magnates, sharpshooters. What a crew we make.”

“We’re breaking a few laws, aren’t we?” Old Trent asks.

“Two very specific ones,” Daddy answers. “But it’s not much off our noses if word doesn’t make its way to the wrong ears. I’m sure what’s spoken here won’t leave the room.”