The Dryline. Jack Grubbs
to some New York Yankee baseball player. Go figure. But, more to the point, Barry actually had grounds for such a suit. He went after the trucking industry. He wanted to make a major statement before tort reform in Texas would screw every trial lawyer in the state. Seiler destroyed him.” Liz stared cold daggers into Bart’s eyes. “And I was nothing more than fucking collateral damage.”
Bart remembered rumors much differently than what was being said. He let it go.
She continued. “I’d like to see the bastard dead.” Holding the stem between thumb and forefinger she tipped the bottom of the glass from one side to the other, watching the small amount of remaining liquid slosh back and forth. Her eyes burned holes in the table. “But that would be too simple. This is only the first step. His sister lives in San Antonio; she’s next on the list. I’ve got someone digging into her history right now. Daughter, son, grandkids, they’re going to pay for the unadulterated shit Tom Seiler put me through.”
Bart realized he had bitten off far more than he cared to chew. He changed the subject back. “Well, all I can say is that you’ll end up with an unexpected windfall that will make you very rich and very happy.”
A final round of drinks and thoughts of her financial gain to be taken from the Seiler family mellowed Liz’s mood. She had cleared her schedule for the remainder of the day. She found Bart Miles very unattractive, particularly compared to Barry Colter. But her emotional state had flip-flopped. As a matter of fact, she was having a wonderful time.
She looked at Bart and thought, Oh, what the hell?
“Bart, my hotel’s five blocks from here.”
Fifteen
Wednesday, January 27
Luling, Texas
Don should not have been driving at all, but Tom was testifying and Don was, well, Don. His physical book read: failing eyesight, barely able to walk, slow reaction time. His mental attitude read: forget the physical book. He drove north out of Luling on State Road 80. A minute later the sweet and sour odor of the oil fields filled his nostrils. He could still smell. He took a right on County Road 132; it was all downhill from there. The asphalt transitioned into a disheveled dirt road along which people had ignored the No Dumping sign for years. Without human intervention the cactus and grassland would have been beautiful. But, save a few palm trees planted by the 86 Oil Company, the place was a mess. He passed an old, corrugated metal building on his left; a barbed wire fence, some rusted oil tanks, a hodge-podge of steel framing members, and several pumpjacks cluttered the landscape to his right. Further down the road a ragtag home and a worn-out trailer in the front yard accentuated the abject lack of scenery. The broken windows and the holes in the roof had not shaken a family from the home. A horse, looking as old as the buildings, lifted his head momentarily and then returned to his meal of grass and dust. A second dirt road with rain-filled ruts cut due north into a field of stripper wells—some dead and some barely alive. A single pumpjack was raising and lowering its head, attempting to get at the small pockets of oil remaining in the ground. It groaned like a rusted ship at its final mooring place. Don drove by the pumpjack and a couple of rusted sheds before turning into a fenced area that had been cleared—the JETS testing site. Don glanced at his watch. Four o’clock. To his front he could see Elam in the middle of a small pod of men at the well site; Elam was ranting and raving at something. One look at Elam and the crew signaled a bad day. Don hobbled toward the derrick. Elam looked over toward Don and raised his hands in a “I don’t know what the hell is going on” pose. Then Don saw the knotted, crushed metal tubing being pulled from the well hole.
Elam, walking slowly toward Don, growled out, “Same shit as before.” He shook his head in dismay, adding, “I just hope you and Tom can get the new design here soon. This just won’t fly and I’ve blown too much smoke at people.
“Old man Pearson is bitching that we’re not pumping enough oil and that we’re cheating him.” Elam lamented about the site owner who bargained for royalties of $10.00 a barrel or $1,000 a month for three years, whichever was higher. The breakdowns were putting Donelam Oil Systems in the hole. “The damn thing breaks every other day. He’s pissed and I’m pissed. This is taking too damn long. How soon we gonna get it?”
“I talked to Odessa a couple of hours ago. If I can get the revisions from Tom this week, we’ll have it by early to mid-March.”
Elam shook his head slowly back and forth. “March? Don, we don’t have the time.”
Don ignored Elam’s comment. He switched his cane temporarily to the left side. “We ought to just hold off until then. I don’t know why you keep spending our money on this.” He pointed at the failed tubing being lifted from the well casing. “The new design will be easier, stronger, more efficient, and everything else. I’m telling you straight up, it’s going to work.” He switched the cane back and started walking slowly toward the derrick.
“Because I’ve got a new group of people coming out tomorrow,” Elam shot back. “We don’t have enough money not to be showing this around. And besides, there are too damn many other people out there working on this idea. Money’s money.” Elam cleared his throat and spit on the ground. “When they see this working and I tell them what they will eventually get is much better than this, I’ll have ‘em in the palm of my hand.”
Don’s leg bothered him. “Let’s go sit down on some chairs.”
Elam yelled to the crew. “Keep pulling. We need to have it in place by noon tomorrow.”
Carlos gave a wave of the hand and turned to the others. “Let’s get after it. We gettin’ paid good, let’s do it good this time.”
Elam walked to the shed and returned with two gray metal chairs. He opened them and placed them on the ground in the sunlight.
Don sat down and rubbed the worst of two bad legs. “You know, I once was the toughest, fastest son of a bitch on a football field you ever saw. I’m still the only player in Texas to run for more than twenty touchdowns and intercept ten passes in a single season.” He shook his head in disgust. “And here I can’t even walk. Damn.”
“Yeah. It sucks. But at least you’re not sitting on your ass. You struggle, fight your fucking disease every day, but you’re still on the playing field giving it everything you got. I’m not going to patronize you, but you do more than anybody I know. California, Texas, working on this thing when you could be watching television on a couch.” Elam leaned forward, hands on his knees. He looked expectantly at Don and added, “I’ll tell you what. If I have to carry you around on my back, I’d still rather work with you than anyone else I have ever known. So don’t even think about that TV shit.”
“Naw. I’m not quitting anything. It’s just damn hard not feeling sorry for myself.” He sucked in and exhaled deeply. “OK. Thanks for the pep talk. What about the new lawyer? It’s been two weeks already.”
Elam’s nonverbal expression retreated into a clear message of doubt. “I talked to him yesterday. He’s had a hard time cranking everything up. He had to take over several of Soboda’s clients. Told me the files were a mess but that he has all he needs.” Elam blinked his eyes in an attempt to counter dryness from wind and dust. “Said he’ll go forward from the point that Soboda was, which wasn’t too damn far.”
“Well, he sure as hell better get going. I worry about not having a patent.” Don added, “By the way, do we have to submit a new patent for our changes? I don’t want to get further behind the power curve.”
“I actually asked him about that when we talked. It’s not a big deal. He’s going to make some sort of addendum. You’ll need to sign it with me.”
“Well, tell him to get his ass in gear. This can’t go on forever.”
Don changed