Читать книгу The Dryline - Jack Grubbs - Страница 29

Eighteen

Monday, February 15

En Route to Odessa, Texas

It’s a virtual dogfight during high traffic hours at Dallas’s DFW airport. Don struggled against a crowd either unaware of or oblivious to his disability; no one gave a shit. A twenty-year-old kid hit Don in the back, knocking him into the Skylink.

“Hey, stupid, use your brains.” He lifted the cane quickly, then thought better of smacking the rude jerk. He wasn’t sure whether he was glad or not that no one would assist him. He did know that he would have been offered help in days gone by.

The new Skylink monorail was far better than the sadistically designed Airtrans system that tortured passengers for decades. Don held on tightly to the vertical pole support as Skylink carried him from Terminal C to Terminal B, slowly shifting his attention to the misfit who had jostled him so rudely. A red, hooded sweatshirt hung loosely over his torso like a cover on a barbecue grill. The hood had been pulled over a black baseball cap straddling his head at an angle and sporting a white, stitched peace sign. Beneath the sweatshirt billowed puffs of faded blue-and-white boxer shorts. His jeans started far below the crack of his buttocks and ended in lumps on top of sandals. Don guessed the kid hadn’t seen a bathtub since the day he was born. The scene became picture-perfect when Don focused his eyes on an olive drab knapsack with Chinese signs and a sketch of Chairman Mao. Don assessed the written words, arriving at the conclusion that it was a Chinese message reading Screw America. Don’s thoughts ran rampant. So this is the human condition. This pissant loser will profess, “Peace to the world, America is the great Satan,” while giving homage to an asshole who murdered thirty-five million Chinese. The little shit is sucking everyone dry at the expense of the American taxpayer.

So went another trip through the bowels of the DFW Airport.

American Eagle flight 3479 from Dallas touched down at the Midland International Airport, located between Midland and Odessa, on time at 1:05 p.m., an hour after Tom landed in the Grumman Tiger. Don had been up since one o’clock in the morning California time. Tom greeted Don at the walkway exit. They shook hands and turned toward the main terminal area.

Don solved the logistics. “I didn’t bring any suitcases. Just the carry-on.”

Tom replied, “You’re the man, mi amigo. I rented the car and we’re ready to go. We’ll grab something at Whataburger on the way.”

Some one hundred thousand people live in Odessa. Spread out across a small plot of the west Texas Permian Basin, Odessa is known for oil and the high school football team, the latter being the more significant of the two. The book Friday Night Lights, depicting the 1988 football team, was a national bestseller and basis for the popular movie and television show of the same name. To this day, residents lament “what if” concerning its loss to Dallas Carter High School. It was irrelevant that Odessa Permian won the state championship the following year and five other times as well. “What if,” they always ask, “the Dallas Carter principal hadn’t changed the grade of one of their players?” Enough complaining.

Permian Machining occupied two acres of prime Odessa real estate—almost no grass and flat as a table. What was once a small service station had grown into a mammoth-sized, steel-frame building. In an open-bay fabrication section, huge plates of steel lay on tables and specially fabricated steel structures awaited delivery to all parts of Texas. Adjacent to the steel fabrication section was the office complex, housing administrative functions in one building and the mechanical fabrication facility in a second building. Gene Starrett, owner of Permian Machining, greeted them on the front steps of the mechanical fabrication building. A large, broad-chested native and former high school football star at Odessa Permian, Gene had walked onto the University of Texas football team. A total of two plays in two years signaled that he would not be an All-American; he left college and worked as a roustabout in the Rodessa oil field for eight years before realizing that his future lay in steel forming and mechanical systems fabrication. “Welcome back. How about a Coke or some water?”

“No thanks. We just downed a couple of double-meat Whataburgers and Cokes.”

Gene nodded his head in agreement. “Then let’s get down to some business. I think you’ll like what we’ve done.”

The three made small talk as they slowly walked past numerous numerically controlled machining systems to a bay at the back end of the work area. With a “this machine does this” and “that machine does that,” Gene gave a guided tour of some of the newer equipment. There was no question that business was good in spite of some economic hard times.

“Here we go.” Gene led the other two into a small bay. “I had the guys pull out the insides so you could see how we’re doing with each part.”

Components of the JETS chamber section lay on top of a forty-foot steel table. In order came the mud anchor, the seepage screen, two seal rings, a seating nipple, ball seat, the ball valve, and a section of the jet barrel. It was an impressive sight to Tom and Don. To Don it was also going to be expensive.

Don walked slowly up and down the table, inspecting each component of the system. Gene walked along with him. Don turned to Gene. “Have you completely assembled it yet?”

“No, not yet. We fit some sections together and the tolerances are right on target. We still have to polish some of the parts, and the seating nipple needs more work. Also, as you can see, we haven’t even started the wellhead assembly yet. Give me another three weeks and we’ll have everything ready for shipment. Same site in Luling?”

Don answered, “Right. All I need is one day’s notice and we’ll be ready for it.”

“Good. I’ll give you a call when we’re ready to ship. Given four hundred miles, the driver should be there late in the afternoon. I’m assuming you can offload it.”

“No problem at all. We’ll have it in the ground the next morning.”

Both Tom and Don inspected each part. They asked questions to which Gene gave candid answers. The brothers were satisfied that the redesign of the JETS was proceeding on time and that the system would work as intended. They accepted a second invitation for Cokes and joined Gene in his office to discuss financing. Don’s lack of venture capital trapped him in a never-ending carnival shell game. The continual flow of money from his pockets, the home equity loan he and Cindy had taken to keep the project going, and his frustration at not having a confirmed patent of the JETS were ganging up on him. Both Tom and Gene sensed Don’s changing emotions as the discussion continued. But Don was determined to see it through.

“All right. We’ve agreed on $53,000 for the first one, $34,000 for the second, and $22,000 for the display system. I can cover the first but I’ll need you to help finance the rest.”

Gene responded softly, “No problem. And forget the banks. I’ll finance it through the business.” He offered Don a finance charge that was more than fair and the deal was sealed. In effect, Donelam would receive three systems for a little more than one hundred thousand dollars. The display pieces would be painted for free. It was a bargain.

The business meeting concluded and Tom and Don were free to go. They were back at the airport by four in the afternoon and airborne in Tom’s Grumman Tiger five minutes later, headed for Conroe. Don spent the night and returned to California the next morning.