Читать книгу The Dryline - Jack Grubbs - Страница 21

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, are you all right?”

Herman Soboda looked up at Lucy with a pitiful, lost expression. He continued to shake. “I… I… I’m not feeling so well.” He wanted to reach for his cup but knew he wouldn’t be able to keep from spilling it. “I think I’ll… uh… I’ll go home.” He regrouped slightly. “I’ll try to come back later today. Please cancel my morning appointments.” As it was, he had no morning appointments.

Herman walked out of the door and straight to his car. He fumbled with his keys. At Main Street he turned left, driving away from his home. He needed to drive and to think.

Outside of Luling some two hundred yards north of County Road 132, a group of men worked on an abandoned stripper well.

“I got it. Hold it for now.” Carlos grabbed the lower end of steel tubing. He moved it to within a couple of inches of the previous tube that stood five feet out of the stripper well casing at one end and over twenty feet inside the well, where it was secured to another down-hole section of tubing.

He yelled again. “OK, lower her slowly.”

The operator engaged the clutch just enough to lower the new section through the center of a mobile derrick and onto the previous section. Carlos signaled the operator. “Hold it.” He instructed the roustabout to join him. “Ready to go, Ricardo. Do it.”

The roustabout wrapped cloth around the bottom of the steel tube and carefully secured it with a pipe wrench. Eight turns with the wrench and the new section of product line was in place. A second tube, adjacent to the first, was attached in the same manner. The two tubes were gently lowered into the ground. The process was ready to be repeated.

Elam turned to Don. “The new worker is good. Only been there a couple of days and somehow he’s taken charge and getting things done.”

Don agreed. “Yeah, I like his attitude, and his time on the learning curve was short. He definitely didn’t take long to establish his place in the group. But let’s see how he is in July and August.”

“Don’t even worry about the summer.” Elam’s eyes twinkled. “By August we’ll be so rich it’ll make your head spin.” He laughed out loud.

Don asked, “What about Tom’s modifications? How much longer will that take?”

“Not too long. I use the guys in Odessa; they’ll let us fall behind a little in the payments. They’ll get a finished product to us in a few weeks. Matter of fact, I’ll be telling interested parties that we are already working on generation two and that they will be given rights to the new one without a raise in the price. They already know that you will be calling them to work out the details.” Elam smiled.

Don answered, “Good. The sooner, the better. We need to turn the corner before we go broke.” He leaned against the side of Elam’s car, his energy already sapped.

A very upbeat Elam responded, “Don, I’ve been down this road before. What we have is the ultimate winner in the oil business. We are going to be very rich sons of bitches.

“By the way, I had a heart-to-heart with Wellington Oil. Arrogant assholes, but I got ‘em interested in the JETS to the point they were slobbering all over each other.” He brushed dirt from his chin and mouth.

Elam’s comment irritated Don. “Damn it, you didn’t tell me you were going there. That pisses me off.” His eyebrows furrowed, partly covering his eyes. “Shit.”

“It was a spur-of-the-moment deal. I was in Houston and just happened to drive by. When I told them who I was, they dropped everything to meet with me. It’s a cat and mouse game—and we’re the cat.” Elam broke into a large grin. “Yeah, we’re the hungry cats and they’re hungry mice. But, hungry or not, they’re just mice.”

Elam wiped his forehead with a dirty handkerchief and turned his attention to the work party. He yelled at the workers while giving them a thumbs-up. “Great job. Keep it moving today and you’ll earn a twenty-dollar bonus.”

Most of the men waved in unison. All but one relished the thought of extra cash. Carlos smiled while thinking to himself, Twenty bucks? How about twenty thousand for me and jack shit for you?

Don asked, “Are we going to be ready for next week?”

Elam smiled and patted Don on the back. “You bet. Some Pakistanis. My guess is that they’ve got money out the gazoo. Don’t trust ‘em one damn bit. They think they’re onto a couple of country bumpkins. And that’s good.”

Don commented, “I don’t trust anybody until we’re patented.”

Herman Soboda drove aimlessly through the streets of League City and then onto the Gulf Freeway toward Galveston. Over time the trembling subsided, the pounding in his chest abated, and his thoughts became more inquisitive than fearful. Who did this? What have I done? Who can I go to? When do I call the police? A touch of bravado entered into his mind. I’ll sue the sorry son of a bitch. Herman decided to go home and settle down. He needed time to sort through clients to find one with the reason and the balls to threaten him.

Herman’s two-story federal house on East Walker Street belied the income of a lower-level attorney. A few very successful cases and the housing market slump of the eighties allowed him such a luxury. A circular driveway flanked by live oaks on both sides led to a small, round portico with stairs ascending to the large, mahogany front door; in turn, the door was centered between four large, black, shuttered windows. Five similar windows spread across the second floor; three dormers protruded from the roof and a chimney sat at each side of the house. The only thing missing from the picture was a pretty, obedient wife. Herman’s wife left two years earlier with a real estate developer. Still, he had a black Lab who was loyal to a fault. Herman walked through the unlocked door to a spacious foyer and spiral staircase. He was home.

“Moose,” he called to the dog. “Come here, boy. Moose!” The dog did not respond. Herman looked briefly into the spacious living room and the window where Moose normally stood guard. But Moose was absent from duty. The sense of fear re-entered his body. Herman entered the kitchen.

The sight paralyzed him. Moose lay prostrate on the kitchen table, his head hanging over the edge. Moose’s tongue pointed listlessly downward and his eyes stared blankly at the floor. Herman recoiled at the sight, barely able to breathe. Panic took over. He looked closer, this time able to see the cause of death. Moose had been disemboweled—not a drop of blood disturbed the table. Four dead tropical fish, arranged in a line between Moose’s front and back legs, completed the macabre scene. Herman backed away from the table and half-staggered back to the front door. At the front of his car, he threw up bile and what little remained of bagel and cream cheese. He did not see the envelope resting beneath Moose’s head. Inside the envelope were a set of instructions and a stack of fifty crisp hundred-dollar bills.