Читать книгу The Dryline - Jack Grubbs - Страница 32

Broken Wing Ranch

Three signs were tacked eight, six, and four feet high on a pine tree in the front yard. In succession they read party’s on the back patio, park here, and first beer’s below. A large arrow pointed down from the bottom sign to a large ice cooler filled with Miller Lite at the foot of the tree. If you wanted a different brand of beer at Tom and Susie’s home, you had to bring your own. Cars were already parked everywhere: on the side of the dirt road, in front of the house, even under the tall pines towering over Tom’s new caboose. The gathering of the clan had started, celebrating the end of winter and serving as a pre-family reunion in preparation for the June blowout at Port Aransas. Fifty-plus family members and friends from all over Grimes County joined in the revelry. Kids romped in the open field, a couple of the fathers had their youngsters at the catfish pond, country music blared from large speakers at the far end of the patio, and laughter was heard everywhere.

The Piper Cub glided in over the trees, touched down at the east end of the runway, and slowed to a stop about a hundred feet in front of the celebrating crowd. Tom cut the engine, unlocked the horizontal door, and let it swing down. He stepped out, moved to the passenger seat, and unbuckled a precious cargo. Like a coiled spring, six-year-old Holly fell into her grandfather’s arms. Adopted in Russia along with her older siblings, Grant and Caroline, Holly had more zip than a zipper factory. Remnants of an accent were long gone for the little Texan.

“Let’s go again, Grampaw. Let’s go again.”

“Maybe we can go again tomorrow.” Tom had to negotiate. “But for now, how about an ice cream cone?”

End of discussion. Holly darted toward Paige screaming, “Mommy, Grampaw says I can have ice cream.” She disappeared into the throng.

Holly was the last rider of the day, giving Tom permission to drink his first beer. Neither Tom nor Susie had to worry about personally entertaining anyone. No one needed any coddling in this gang. Laughter, music, and the aroma of shredded pork barbecue and fried chicken permeated the landscape.

“Got seventeen rolls this time. Mighty good for this early in the year.” Cyril Diller, a baseball cap pulled low over his eyes, spoke of their agreement: Tom traded hay for the ability to jog through Cyril’s property. The specifics called for Cyril to cut the hay often enough to ensure that the ranch looked well groomed. As for the runway, Tom manicured it after “Serial Killer” gave it the rough cut.

Cyril’s eyes, averting Tom’s, looked off into the distance. His mannerisms—from the shifting eyes, to the hands in his pockets, to his low whispering voice—gave Susie an eerie feeling about their neighbor. She once dubbed Cyril Diller as “Serial Killer” and it stuck like glue. Family and friends came to call him, with affection, by his nefarious nickname, though not to his face. No matter his eccentricities, everyone liked Serial Killer. He’d probably helped half the people of Grimes County at one time or another. Shifty eyes; not many teeth; dirty as a mongrel; good friend.

Tom answered Serial Killer. “I thought it would be a good spring. Being this early, you might get seven cuttings this year.” He tipped his beer. “Here’s to a good crop and some fat cattle.”

“Hi, Cyril.” Susie, along with Paige, walked up next to Tom. “How’ve you been?” She looked him in the eyes, to no avail.

“Cyril, I’m Paige. I inherited Tom as my father.” She stuck out her hand.

He looked everywhere but directly at either of them. He failed to shake hands with Paige, barely answering Susie’s friendly question. “Been good. Lot of heat for this time of the year.” He looked down at his can. “Better get me another beer.” Serial Killer was much like a Dachshund, comfortable with only a select few. Susie wasn’t one of the few. Apparently Paige wasn’t either. He put his empty hand to the bill of his cap and walked away.

No sooner did Serial Killer leave than Randy and Jeanie Rouse, neighbors who owned five hundred acres west of Richards, Texas, came up.

Looking at the beer in Tom’s hand, Randy said, “I see you’re finished flying for the day. Now what’s Rachel going to think?” He and Jeanie smiled at their granddaughter heading over to join Holly at the ice cream trough.

Tom watched Rachel, already laughing at something funny Holly said. Tom pointed at Rachel and answered, “I think I’m off the hook. And speaking of hooks,” Tom gestured slightly toward Paige, “I meant to tell you that your work on the whip hose paid off. Ed Harvey told me that the computer models sold the jury completely. I don’t know what the judgment will be, but our side did its duty and your work was dead-on.” Once again Tom and Paige had pulled off a forensic coup.

Paige, strikingly pretty with dark brown eyes and a straight Seiler nose, smiled at her father. Memories of a little girl building balsa wood bridges in Tom’s office played in her mind. Grin on her face, Paige started to respond, “Well, let’s get ready for—”

A horn honked on the highway. Tom, the Rouses, Susie, and Paige looked over just in time to see Delana’s taxi pass behind some trees along FM 1486. Betsy the Cadillac trailed the taxi by two car lengths. Two minutes later Don, Cindy, Elam, and Delana walked between the office building and the main house.

“How you doin’, ole man?” Don’s youthful smile broke across his face. He crowded the beer and cane in one hand and shook Tom’s with the other.

Delana and Cindy each gave Tom a peck on the cheek. Friends and family came over to say hello. Most had not met Delana, but all had heard about her and wanted to see her in the flesh. Her inhibitions evaporated in the smiles and friendliness of these people. Tom and Don told some good stories about her life as a taxi driver and her meeting the likes of Sonny Bono, Brooks Robinson, and Denzel Washington. She was also the only person they knew who had ever been held up with a knife to her throat. Nancy, the oldest sibling in the Seiler family, thoroughly enjoyed meeting the taxi driver who was so close to her brothers. After a while Nancy pirated Delana into joining her on the porch. In the hour before Delana had to leave, Nancy told some interesting tales of Tom, Don, and their deceased brother Jack.

Tom emerged from the edge of the pines with a small gaggle of the partygoers. He circled his arm, enticing the women to join the group.

“Nancy, Delana. Come on with us. I want to show you my latest toy.” Tom escorted them to the antique train caboose—not a model, but the real thing. Built in 1971 for the Burlington Northern Railroad, the caboose was painted a beautiful deep red on the outside. A bright thin yellow stripe ran the entire length of the caboose, and just forward of the cupola was a six-foot yellow circle four inches in thickness. A large yellow cross about the same as the Red Cross logo was inscribed in the circle, and along the horizontal bar of the cross, again in deep red, was the lettering Santa Fe. The Burlington Northern logo could not compete with the Santa Fe Railroad. The visitors—particularly Nancy, who had seen it in San Antonio during retrofitting—marveled at the glorious relic.

Hanging from the steps, Tom glowed. “The original inside was god-awful so I made some changes. I decided to mix the mind of an old fart with that of an eight-year-old kid. Come on in and see what I got.”

Over the next twenty minutes the guests studied the light-paneled walls, the larger-than-manufactured windows, a double deck bed, a small toilet and shower combination, a small kitchenette with stove, a game table for six, a small flat-screen television, and a refrigerator full of soft drinks for the kids and beer for the adults. He could have spent the whole night in his caboose, but enough was enough. Time to get back to the party.

Elam tapped Tom on the shoulder as they walked back toward the hangar. “Tom, I’ve got to run. How about you, Don, and I talking a few things out?”

Don agreed. “Good idea. Elam’s got to head out pretty quick and we ought to just figure out exactly where we are with the JETS.”

Tom called to the others. “I’ll catch up with everybody. These two want to ruin the day with business talk.”

Tom, Don, and Elam peeled off from the main group and walked to Tom’s office.

“Elam, you’re a wuss. The party’s just getting started. What’s the big deal?”

“The big deal, my friend, is that I have a date with a very fine woman.”

“Is this Sarah, the new love of your life?”

Elam grinned. “Sure is. She deserves better ‘n me, but I’m not telling.”

Don interjected, “I ought to tell her what a sorry SOB she’s dating.” Don scratched at his ear. “But she’ll figure it out soon enough.” He shook his head and smiled down at his cane.

Tom said, “Don, have you noticed how this societal derelict is talking differently about her than the other poor women he’s dated?” He turned back to Elam. “I think she’s got you totally under control. Sort of like a lap dog. Hell, you’re even dressing as though you know what looks acceptable.”

They entered the office and pulled up stools to the larger drafting table.

Tom asked, “OK, where are you two on the JETS?”

Elam rubbed the palm of his right hand across his forehead and started briefing the other two. “Both JETS prototypes arrived from Odessa on Tuesday. We started putting one down-hole Wednesday morning. The other one and the display model are in the shed.” Elam had a twinkle in his eye and a skip in his step. “They’re both impressive just sitting there. I’ll use the display for my briefings to clients.”

“How’s the down-hole system holding up?”

“Absolutely rock-solid.” Elam’s voice picked up. “I mean dead-on rock-solid. We tested it yesterday at twenty-five hundred feet.” Elam stood up. He looked at his partners through emblazoned eyes. “It seemed to be a typical stripper well, or so we thought. We pumped twenty-three barrels of oil yesterday. Just for discussion’s sake, at a hundred dollars a barrel that would make $2,300. Try multiplying that by some 350 days a year.” Then his smile covered his entire face. “This morning we pumped eight barrels by ten o’clock. I told the guys to knock off early and enjoy the weekend.”

“Are you going to be ready for Wellington Oil’s visit on Tuesday?” Don spoke of the first demonstration of the new version.

“Better than that. We’ll be ready for Wellington on Tuesday and two others the following week.” Elam continued. “Even Exxon and a Saudi Arabian delegation are looking at their schedules as we speak.”

Tom reacted quickly, his speech measured. “This is where we need to talk about ethics.”

Don and Elam responded differently. Don’s face wrinkled with questioning; Elam’s face wrinkled with irritation.

“I’ve heard you talking about Chinese, Pakistanis, and now the Saudis. Are you interested in strictly money where the highest bidder gets your patent?” Tom’s words slowed slightly. “China is eating our lunch with some of the stupid trade agreements we’ve made, the Saudis are a theocracy hell-bent on hating the United States, and the Pakistanis harbor more militant Muslims than you could imagine. If you’re getting solid American interest, and it looks like you are, then I say the hell with the foreigners.”

Tom’s comment sucked the wind from Elam’s mouth. But only for two seconds.

“Look, I didn’t work on this device for half my life in order to go bankrupt. One device isn’t going to change American fortunes one bit. It doesn’t mean a damn thing.”

Don didn’t know which way to turn. Tom did.

“Look, Elam. It belongs to you and Don and you have every right to do what you want with it. I have every right to tell you that I think it is a mistake to give up a patent to foreign enterprises.” He leaned closer to Elam, almost violating Elam’s personal space. “And since I mentioned the Saudis, did you stop to think that, at this point in history, they don’t even need the device? They’re still dealing with almost infinite supplies of oil. Any interest they have in JETS is for some bad-assed purpose. Guaranteed.”

Elam’s uncomfortable silence signaled agreement with Tom’s statement.

Don recovered and steered the discussion. “We don’t have to sell the patent. If we deal with foreigners, we can do what you said, keep the patent and just sell or lease individual units.”

Tom beat Elam in responding. “That’s a damn good idea if you’re dealing with honest people. But you’re not. Don’t think for a minute that these foreign companies, including state-owned, won’t screw you in a heartbeat. Whether you sell the patent or lease systems, they’ll get you. Are you familiar with what the Chinese have done to the intellectual property of our country?” He moved even closer to Elam, face to face. “They’ve stolen it like they’re in one big candy store. As for you, once they get the first JETS system, they’ll mass-produce them out the wazoo. We all know that.”

Elam’s impenetrable belief that he was the toughest son of a bitch in the valley held tight. “I can handle these people. No, I don’t trust them, but I could put together an agreement that is airtight.”

It was Don’s turn to get into Elam’s face. “We’re partners on this, Elam. Everyone has a say. Don’t make any unilateral decisions.”

Tom added, “I’ve talked this whole thing over with some pretty smart people. The consensus is that you’d both be better off setting it up so that you get residual income. The best contract would be one in which you get a sum of money up front, a small chunk of money for each unit built, and a small percentage of gross revenues associated with each barrel of oil recovered.”

The conversation slowly meandered over to the status of the patent.

“We’re finally making real progress on the patent. I’ve got something to show you.” Elam pulled a folded paper from his shirt pocket. “It’s a letter of patentability from Barrister and Associates.”

He opened it up and gave it to Donald. Tom looked over Don’s shoulder. The letter read:

March 16, 2010 Barrister and Associates Intellectual Property Attorneys 5718 Westheimer Road, Suite 1400 Houston, Texas 77057

Invention: Jet Extraction Technology System

Inventors: Elam Duquette & Donald H. Seiler

To Whom It May Concern: We have concluded a patent search on the Jet Extraction Technology System.

Similar patents include:

7,223,556 B4 Belton Issued 06 Sep 2008 Liquid displaced chamber lift system with closed loop vents

7,004,744 B3 Belton Issued 21 May 2005 Chamber lift system with double chamber

2,334,781 Gelbert Issued 28 April 1999 Multi-phase flow transport system

Based upon our investigation of these patents and similar matters related to the designated invention of Duquette and Seiler, it is our opinion that the Jet Extraction Technology System, a.k.a. JETS, as designed, has merit as an original invention. Although there are other inventions related to this one, none has the specific innovations detailed in the device description.

For further information, please contact us at the address above.

Sincerely yours,

Frederick J. Barrister, IP Attorney

Don gave the letter back to Elam, and said, “It sounds good, but how close in time does that put us to owning the patent?”

Elam replied, “I asked and he said if no one contests the letter then we would have it registered within six weeks.”

“Six weeks. Shit, this is going on forever.”

“Don’t knock it. We’re almost there. Besides, this letter is on file and it gives us a specific date of submission. No one can steal it from us now.”

The letter meant very little to Tom. “Elam, I’ve been through the patent routine several times. The letter you received is from Barrister, not the patent and copyright office. What you’ve got might be good information and, then again, it might not mean anything at all.”

Don tightened. He started to respond but a knock on the door interrupted the discussion. In walked James, the next-door neighbor. Next door in these parts of the country was three football fields away. “Hey, what kind of host are you? Everybody’s getting revved up and you’re in here blowing smoke at each other.” He shook hands with Don and introduced himself to Elam.

“Damn. You’re right. Let’s go party. I think we’ve solved the problems of the world.”

The three men got up and followed James toward the caboose platform.

“Damn, I almost forgot.” Don tapped Elam on the head.

Elam, halfway down the metal steps of the caboose, looked up at Don. “Forgot what?”

“Another company called and would like to talk to us. Caprock Industries is the name. Out of Lubbock.”

“Never heard of them. Probably some small company that can’t compete with the big ones. Forget ‘em.”

Elam stepped onto the gravel bedding and sauntered off toward his car. “Sorry I can’t stay, but I’ve got to get ready for my date tonight and I’ve got more ‘n a hundred miles to drive.”

Don added, “Yeah, and I saw The March of the Penguins where they walk seventy miles across the Antarctic just to get laid. Still got those hormones.”

They shared a hearty laugh. Then Elam turned back to the group, his smile turning serious. “I want both of you to meet her. She’s a beautiful woman. She’s special.” His boyish smile returned. He took a couple of backward steps and then turned around again.

Both Tom and Don were surprised by Elam’s statement. Elam’s newly found maturity rendered them speechless.

Finally, Tom yelled, “Watch out for the weather tonight. It’s going to get rough.”

His back to them, Elam waved his arm in salute. Farewell.

Tom, Don, and James headed back to the party.

As they walked along the parched grass, Tom commented, “Don, that small company. Caprock. You ought to call them back.”

“I already have.”