The Dryline. Jack Grubbs
tightened. “Aren’t you bringing a lot of people in on this? I’m not sure we should be expanding it.” He waited for a benign answer.
Bart was on edge. “Damn it, Frank. Don’t you get it? If we’re successful, this thing will be worth billions. On the other hand, if this guy pulls it off and Wellington is shut out, we don’t get squat. That’s not going to happen.”
Frank mistrusted Bart, but did not fear him. “Well, here comes an eye opener for you. Why not pay him some decent money? Three, maybe four million will give it to us with no hassles and no legal issues.”
“You’re dead wrong.” Bart tapped his finger on the table. “I’ve learned that—”
The waitress appeared out of thin air. She placed the drinks in front of each man and a bowl of assorted nuts in the center of the table. “Shall I run a tab?”
Bart answered quickly. “Yeah.”
Frank added, “Thank you, Ginna.”
Bart swallowed a third of his drink immediately.
They returned to the discussion. Bart said, “This guy has no intention of budging for less than tens of millions. Hell, you heard him yourself.”
“Quiet down some. Or invite everyone in here to our table.” Frank took a large swallow of his own.
Bart continued. “Since he won’t show us the plans, I’ll have Aguirre either steal one of the prototypes so we can break it down, or have him spend several nights taking it apart and putting it back together.”
Frank signaled Ginna, holding two fingers in the air. She waved and headed back to the bar.
Frank acquiesced with some admonition. “All right, but here’s what I don’t like. For the first time since we’ve had, shall I say, projects of our own, you don’t seem one bit organized.” He bit his lower lip slightly, ala a pensive Bill Clinton. “And, if we go the whole way, I don’t feel like giving the profits to Wellington. There damn well better be a mechanism where we pocket the bulk of the profits.”
Bart’s eyes lifted toward Frank. “I’ve given it great thought. You and I are about to be pretty good conceptual design wizards. With the help of a mechanical draftsman, our basic concept—which we’ll get from their design—will be turned into a fortune, owned by us as individuals, and provided to Wellington for a huge percentage of the profit. You’re also the finance wizard. I handle the device and you show us the money. We walk out as billionaires, the company stays solvent, and everyone—except what’s-his-name—ends up happy as a pig in shit.”
Three more rounds of drinks and two bowls of nuts disappeared as a specific strategy emerged.
Frank left first, headed to a formal dinner party that he did not wish to attend.
Bart called Ginna over. She walked to his table, smiling all the way. “Yes, sir. Are you ready for the check?”
“No. Let me see your menu.”
Don was curious. “What’s your take on this guy?”
Elam answered quickly. “He’ll work out fine. Name’s Carlos something. He’s eager to work. Sharp, articulate, confident but not too cocky. Said he met Juan several weeks ago playing pool and heard good things about us.”
Don, unconvinced, asked, “What’s he know about stripper wells?”
“Enough. Has some background as a roustabout and was a car mechanic. I think he’s just what we need.”
“OK. Let’s start him at fourteen bucks an hour and see how he works out.”
“Gotcha. You coming out to the site tomorrow?”
“Won’t be able to. Tom and I need to finish up the redesign. I’ll try to get out there by Monday.”
They hung up, satisfied that they were still making progress. Susie walked out onto the patio just as Don pushed the end button to his cell phone.
“How’d you make out?”
Don looked up at his sister-in-law. “Great. Just hired a new kid to replace the one we lost.”
Fred called Bart on schedule—right in the middle of Bart’s meal. Their conversation played out between bites and completely on a one-way street. Bart Miles did the driving.
“Once Soboda’s gone I’ll let you know. You immediately call Duquette and take over.”
Fred Barrister answered, “No problem. I’ll make it happen.” He pondered his five-year association with Bart Miles. His first crossing of the line netted him $22,000. All he had to do was provide some purloined bidding documents to Bart. What Fred failed to understand was that he had the talent to make excellent money through sheer competence and initiative. He never needed Bart Miles.
Fred continued the conversation. “Right. Once on board I’ll slow down the process.”
“Keep me posted on any information he spits out. The guy talks a lot and will tell you anything you want to know.” Bart stabbed a scallop and a few green beans and stuffed them in his mouth. He pointed the fork at an empty seat while toning down his volume. “I know exactly how this is going to turn out. So do you, if you handle it right. When it’s done, and you’re one big fucking part of it, your payoff goes from thirty thousand to at least a hundred thousand. If it goes really well, I might just quadruple the tab.”
Fred sucked in a deep breath and looked up to his gods while thinking of his good fortune. It can’t get any better, he thought.
Twelve
Monday, January 11
League City, Texas
Herman Soboda clamped the Galveston County Daily News between his arm and side. Small wisps of steam escaped through the air hole of his coffee cup. He entered a modest house on Waco Avenue; chipped white paint signaled a time of better days. His private office was an enigma. Hundreds of legal texts, perfectly arranged alphabetically by topic, lined the front edge of each row of a wall-to-wall bookshelf in military precision. The rest of the office was roughage. Manila folders, all stuffed haphazardly with papers of all sizes and descriptions, lay on his desk, both visitor chairs, and the top of filing cabinets. Two weeks’ worth of newspapers lay next to the metallic trashcan. He set his coffee and paper on the desktop and pulled out his worn cotton-weave swivel chair. Looking down, he noticed an envelope on the seat with Herman Soboda typed in black ink. Herman’s recollection was that he had gone home after his secretary, but since the days passed in a blur, she probably left after him and put it there as a reminder of some sort. He picked it up, sat down in his chair, and opened the letter. He took one sip before unfolding the paper. He started to read…
You will do as instructed. If you don’t…
A consuming chill coursed through his body. That it might be a practical joke didn’t enter his mind. He closed the letter but could not put it down; he opened it and read it a second time. The same threatening words spoke to him. He folded the letter and put it in the envelope. He unbuttoned the middle two buttons on his shirt and stuffed the envelope between his undershirt and white dress shirt. His hands trembled.
A small bell rang signaling the arrival of Lucy Mays, his secretary. Following her daily ritual, she stuck her head inside the door.
“And a good day to you, Mister Soboda.” She smiled and expected a smile in return. What she saw was ashen. “Mister Soboda,