The Dryline. Jack Grubbs
conquest on his face. They got out of the car and walked through the front door toward one of the most succulent aromas known to mankind.
City Market is a Texas culinary gemstone. Long lines are the norm and reach to a back dining room, sometimes out the door to the sidewalk along Davis Street. The front half of the counter area offers souvenir knickknacks, and the back serves as the watering hole for customers. Wooden booths fill opposite walls and numerous benches occupy the center of City Market. Entrance and exit doors protect the cooking grills in the kitchen where Frankie, Ray, and Alex banter with customers ordering sausage, brisket of beef, pork, onions, and half loaves of bread. Iced tea or a good Texas beer from the watering hole closes out the main menu; pecan patties make for a great dessert.
The men joined the queue and slowly edged their way to a square counter area in the main dining room. After they sat down with their food, Tom swallowed some brisket, sliced onion, and bread, chased them with his iced tea, and then focused the other two on the project. “OK, last night we didn’t get much into the operational details of the JETS. How about starting with the macro implication of this thing? We’ll get into more nuts and bolts later.”
Elam started first. “What do you know about stripper wells, Tom?”
“Not much. They’re wells that don’t have a lot of oil. Most aren’t worth the cost of pumping. That’s about it.”
Elam continued. “That’s right. And cost is the big factor. If the price of oil is low and pumping it from stripper wells is expensive, then forget ‘em. But suppose there’s a device that pumps the oil cheaper than anything else out there, and,” Elam pointed his index finger into the air, “suppose the cost of oil rises above what the world has been used to over the years.”
Don interjected, “Suppose, hell. OPEC has bounced it all over the place. Soon as the price went over a hundred bucks a barrel I knew the United States was in deep kimchi. Assholes like Chavez in Venezuela are trying to strangle us.” His eyes closed slightly and a furrowed V formed along his forehead. “If the Mideast becomes destabilized—and it’s a powder keg at best—there’s no knowing what the price will be. Add to that the fact that we aren’t doing shit to develop additional oil sources. It’ll go down from time to time, but in the long run, let’s say at least another twenty years until alternative energy is achieved, and the curve will go up.”
Tom took another bite as Elam threw out some financial tidbits. “Don’s dead on. That’s where we come in. For starters, it’s not just about our consumption of oil in the states, no sir. The Chinese and Indians have jumped in with both feet. Everybody’s using it like it’s going out of style. I’m telling you, consumption is going to go ballistic. Check out the quarterly profits of our large oil companies. It’s un-fucking-believable. With oil prices soaring, our ability to pump cheap oil with JETS turns every stripper well into a gold mine. From mom and pop to the major oil companies, we can be in the money.” Elam began to get excited. “Don and I checked with the Texas Railroad Commission. It’s those folks who monitor and regulate the state oil industry. Of the 350,000 oil and gas wells in Texas, some 115,000 stripper wells pump less than ten barrels a day and another 30,000 pump between ten and a hundred. The owners only keep the small ones running because Texas will make them plug the wells if they don’t produce at all. That costs money they don’t have. We can make money for each one of them—and for us. Not just here in Texas, but the rest of the country and everywhere else. There are seventy million stripper wells around the world.”
Tom listened intensely as the full potential of their system took hold. It would be a new experience to join the ranks of people who considered money by putting four to five additional zeroes before the decimal point.
Elam added, “Let’s say that we could get access to only 5 percent of those wells. That’s 3.5 million wells. We could pump the oil ourselves, lease the system to users, or sell it outright to a large company. Of course, anything we sell to a company would come with a clause for residual compensation in direct correlation with the amount of oil produced.”
“So what’s your bottom line?” Tom said and swallowed more tea.
“As conservative as we can be, it would come to no less than one thousand dollars a well. Tom, we’re looking at 3.5 billion dollars.” He grinned that shit-eating grin of his. “At a minimum.”
Tom responded, “You could almost live on that amount and the government would make its own fortune.” He chuckled slightly as he processed the difference between a pipe dream and the one-in-a-million jackpot.
“No shit,” said Elam and Don in unison.
Don declared, “Young troopers, we’re in place for a big payoff.”
Tom’s last bite disappeared. He chewed, swallowed, and answered, “I agree. When we head back home, Don and I can work on improving your design. What I heard last night tells me that your basic concept is good and we just need to brainstorm the shortcomings.” Tom smiled as he stood up. “I can help you. But first, lunch is over. It’s time to visit your worker.”
Five
Tuesday Afternoon,
December 29
Breuner’s Funeral Home
Breuner’s Funeral Home was a stone’s throw from the main government buildings of Luling, just south of the Southern Pacific Railroad tracks. Don, Tom, and Elam walked up wooden steps to a wraparound porch of an 1880s-vintage Victorian home. A middle-aged woman dressed in a dark blue cotton dress greeted them at the front door. She smiled gently.
“Good afternoon. I’m Mary Otter. You must be the gentlemen wanting to pay respects to Mr. Delgado. Come in.” She stepped back slightly, holding the door open.
“I’m Tom Seiler. We appreciate your letting us see Mr. Delgado.” Tom offered his hand and she accepted. Don and Elam introduced themselves similarly.
Mary Otter closed the door. She spoke quietly. “Please come this way.”
On each side of a large pastel blue foyer, pocket doors opened to double-roomed suites. A small group of well-dressed people spoke quietly in the nearest room to their left. Mary escorted the men around a circular stairway and down a fairly long hallway; she opened the door to the last room and invited the men inside. Two operating tables occupied the center of the room. Elam shivered, partly from a sudden drop in the temperature and partly from his realization of where they were. What the hell are we doing here? he thought. We can’t help Delgado. Lights above the tables gave evidence to the tables’ purpose. Semi-surgical instruments lay near each table in clean trays. Cabinets and drawers covered one wall; what appeared to be three refrigerator doors faced them from the back of the room. Mary Otter moved to the middle door.
Respecting the deceased, Mary whispered, “This is not normal procedure for us, but we understand your situation.”
During Tom’s phone call to Breuner’s he told them of their relationship with Juan. That his call was sanctioned by the Luling Police Department made the unusual visit possible.
Tom spoke for all. “Again, thank you. He was a good man.”
Mary nodded and opened the door. The three men looked in immediately and could see the black hair of Juan’s head. Mary pulled lightly on the stainless steel body tray; it glided smoothly on rollers, exposing the full body of Juan Delgado. A sheet placed by the staff in anticipation of the visit covered Juan’s torso.
Elam flinched and inhaled a large breath. “Damn.” He exhaled, remaining silent.
Mary ignored the slight profanity and stepped back out of the way.
The men stared at the body of Juan Delgado. The expressionless face did not seem happy or sad—or anything. It was void.
Tom turned