Читать книгу The Dryline - Jack Grubbs - Страница 26

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 the subject. “I’ve got to head back to California in the morning. I’ll be back once Odessa has started machining the new system. Is there anything you need from me?”

“Just the new JETS. If Tom’s ideas pan out, I am going to turn this into a fortune. I guarantee it.” A big toothy grin appeared beneath intense eyes and crooked nose.

“Duquette is putting pressure on me. Still, yesterday’s discussion went well.” Fred Barrister looked back and forth between Bart Miles and Frank Milsap. The Wellington Oil and Exploration conference table was so large it made him feel small. Nervousness, like small insects, crawled all over him. “He called again this morning and told me he wanted to see the entire file from Soboda, along with all actions I have taken.”

“So what are you going to do?” asked Bart. “Because you sure as hell are going to do something.”

Fred moved uncomfortably in his very comfortable chair. “Well, I plan to write up a letter that is nothing more than regurgitation of what has already been written, except that it now will have my signature on it.” He remembered something that Elam had told him. “One thing that may help is that he told me a new model is being made. I told him that we could write an addendum if the changes are minor. I also told him that if the changes were major, we might have to submit a new patent. He told me that the changes were small but I think he’s hedging.”

Bart interrupted. “Yeah, he told us about an improved model. That’s what we’re interested in. How soon do they expect to have it and how long can you hold them off?”

“Based on what he was saying, it should be completed in three to four weeks. I can add several weeks to the timeline by making the argument that their tweaks to the system are considered major changes. Even with minor changes, I can slow the process down while making them think we are moving along.” Fred ran his tongue around the outside of his teeth as though cleaning them, a maneuver often made when thinking on his feet. A small grin grew. “One other thing that might make it much easier for us is the concept of being the ‘first to invent’.”

Fred gave a short class on the significance of being the first to invent a device and its priority over being the first to file a patent. He argued that if the changes being made by Don and Elam could be construed as a new design, and then if Wellington Oil submits plans of basically the same new device, they could claim that Wellington was actually the first to invent the new device. “It all boils down to us being able to obtain either the plans or a prototype of the new design, making a few small modifications, and submitting it first.” He grinned wider. “I can get it done easily.”

Bart broke in, “I don’t want others getting involved. Understood?”

“No problem. I can get the help without anyone knowing what is going on.” Fred felt confident. Cocky was more like it.

Frank asked, “If you’re the lawyer, why don’t you have the plans of the new device already? I mean, how in the hell can someone work with a patent lawyer on a product and not disclose the specific design?”

“I don’t know. But legally, he doesn’t have to submit the new design until they are ready to. My guess is that they are still working on it. Duquette said he’d give me some details soon, but not everything. Just enough to keep the patent going.” The smile widened again. It was huge. Fred Barrister was rocking and rolling. “If they build the prototype, which is exactly what I think they are doing, and if we can have access to it long enough to make our own set of plans, we’ll have a better chance of submitting first while steering clear of legal issues.” I just nailed it, he thought. I am one smart SOB.

Bart wrote a couple of notes on a pad of paper, circled a few words, and then looked back at Fred Barrister. “You need to find out what is going on with the plans and the prototype. I can take care of obtaining any prototype and getting our own plans from it.”

“I can do it.”

“Fine. Frank, any questions?”

“Nope. Seems everything’s going well.”

Bart spoke dismissively to Fred. “I don’t care about whatever else you have going on. This is where your effort will be. I want to see you here once a week. Schedule it with my secretary. That’s all.” Bart got up and headed for the executive restroom. No handshake. No acknowledgement. His only comment being, “Frank, hang on for a minute.”

Once Fred Barrister departed, Bart and Frank analyzed where they were with obtaining the JETS. Bart sat at the head of the table, Frank occupying a seat two chairs away.

“Once he has this new prototype out in Luling or wherever, we’ll have Carlos steal it over a weekend. We analyze it, make and submit our own designs for a patent, and, while Barrister sandbags their efforts, walk off with billions.”

Frank played devil’s advocate. “I still see a lot of ‘ifs’ in this whole thing. Don’t underestimate Duquette. We need to plan this very carefully. Can you really do it?”

Bart shrugged and rebutted Frank’s concerns. “This device belongs to us. Period. If they can, OPEC and all the other greedy bastards will eventually move the price to two hundred dollars a barrel. China and India keep increasing the demand and that’s not going to change. Hell, the Americans just don’t understand, but their days of buck-fifty gas are gone forever. The big oil companies are raking in money by the billion-dollar basket load. As for the United States, all this crap about alternate energy will get bogged down in governmental incompetence. We’ll be dead before oil is no longer at the top of the chain.” Bart had a hard time sitting still, the anticipation of untold wealth filling him with glee. “And Frank, my good man, it’s our turn. We’re going to dip into the pot for personal fortunes that may even be too big for your greedy ass.” His eyes lit up like a Christmas tree.

Frank softened at Bart’s absolute conviction of success.

Bart started to chuckle. “Yes indeed, Frank. We’re going to steal this thing right from under their eyes. Can you imagine what they’re going to think when we roll our own version off the assembly line? ‘Duh, what the hell happened to us?’” Bart laughed and Frank followed. Bart had to stand up. He went to the window and looked down on the people of Houston, scurrying from place to place in search of lofty, mostly unobtainable dreams. He could not take the grin from his face. He turned around, slamming his right fist into his left hand, and smiled at Frank. “This is so damn much fun. All I have to do now is to make sure my sleazebag ex-wife doesn’t get one penny of it.”

They laughed again.