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Praise for The Dryline
“The Dryline is a riveting story with believable characters in an intricate plot. From the beginning, this book grabs your attention as Grubbs combines engineering, oil recovery, greed, and murder in a fascinating South Texas tale. Seeing Grubbs’s name as the author is evidence that the book is a great read.”
—John W. Raymond, Esquire, BS, MS, JD, MLT
“Grubbs uses cutting-edge forensics to masterfully expose the dark side of ego, competition, and greed in modern day society.”
—Foster L. Wade, PhD
Retired Deputy Assistant Secretary, US Department of the Interior Oil and Gas Industry Executive
© 2012 John H. Grubbs
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
The Dryline
A Seiler Murder Mystery
The Small Press
16250 Knoll Trail Drive, Suite 205
Dallas, Texas 75248
www.BBSmallPress.com (972) 381-0009
www.GrubbsBooks.com www.GrubbsStuff.com
A New Era in Publishing™
eISBN 978-1-612548-13-5
Library of Congress Control Number 2011939704
Printing in the United States
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
To the men and women of the
United States Armed Forces. They understand
and suffer the consequences of the fight
between good and evil.
Acknowledgments
Thanks to Daniel Millwee, editor, and Cynthia Stillar-Wang, director of The Small Press—a division of Brown Books Publishing Group—both of whom smoothed out many of the bumps in my version of the written word and took the novel from my mind and into production.
Thanks to my brother and sister-in-law, Tom and Susie Grubbs, for their taking the time to dig deeply into the story and provide insight into the plot and those technical details that needed to be clear to every reader. Thanks to John and Gracie Raymond, whose attention to detail led to many improvements. Thanks also to Tony Russillo, who was able to cast off the shackles of former military ranks and tell me straight up where I needed to make changes.
My memory is not what it used to be, so I give my absolute thanks to those of you I have not mentioned but who provided solid feedback—and support.
Finally, to my wife, Judy, I can only thank you for getting me back on my feet following a tough injury, patting me on the back, and—lovingly—telling me to get back “on track.” I love you, hon.
Prologue
Saturday Night, December 26
Monte’s Bar, Luling, Texas
Crack. Pop. The orange five ball rolled swiftly across the smooth, green surface to the far corner, gently kissed the brown leather padding, and dropped into the pocket.
Juan Delgado, a short, wiry Mexican, openly exuded satisfaction with his poolroom prowess. He smiled at the three men circling the pool table and thumped his chest. “Soy el mejor—I’m the best.” The men’s conversations mixed Spanish with English.
Carlos Aguirre gave his new teammate a solid backslap as Juan moved around the table. Juan drew deeply on a cigarette, exhaling slate-gray smoke toward the oblong Budweiser lamp hanging over the table. Adjacent to the poolroom, throngs of beer-drinking, chain-smoking, working-class Texans crowded tables and the bar as music from a 1950s jukebox invited all, young and old, to the dime-sized, sawdust-covered dance floor.
“Two off the six.” Juan, a slight buzz in his head, walked around the table, chalked his cue, placed it comfortably into position, and took aim. A stub of Chesterfield Classic Red hung from his lips. Crack. Pop. Click. The two ball angled steeply off the six ball, hit two banks, and slowed to a stop in the middle of the table.
“Mierda—Shit.” Juan grabbed his bottle of Lone Star and took a large swig.
Manuel Rodriguez’s turn. He handed his bottle to Emilio Cepeda and moved slowly around the table, eyeing each ball in relation to the others. He was good—so good that Luling no longer fed his voracious appetite for hustling. Manuel could make several hundred dollars on a good weekend in Austin or San Antonio. He especially enjoyed taking money from the rich University of Texas kids. He dried his hands on his Levi’s and powdered them with talc. He nodded toward Juan and Carlos and, mimicking Juan, thumped his chest while announcing, “El rey de la colina—the king of the hill.”
Sure enough, the king was there. Manuel tilted a dirty cowboy hat to the back of his head and carefully lined up his shot. A second later, what seemed a white streak of light hit the nine ball, driving it into a side pocket. The eleven ball quickly followed suit.
Manuel attacked the high balls as Carlos sidled up to Juan and continued an ongoing discussion. With piercing black eyes deeply set into a stone-cut face, Carlos towered over his teammate. He asked, “So you’re telling me the people you working for can get oil out of a dry hole?”
“Hell yes, man. We pumping more oil out of that hole than they done for years. We done four other holes in five weeks. Got two machines working damn good. The other two got messed up with the down-hole tubes.” Juan drew in one last time on the dying cigarette butt, slowly blew the smoke into the air, and emptied more beer into his gut. He tossed the butt onto the concrete floor and crushed it with his boot.
Manuel continued running the table while Carlos and Juan talked.
Carlos asked, “How’re the people you work for? Treat you OK?”
“Got no complaints. I signed on in Odessa and stayed with them when they moved to Luling. I been working with them since last January. Man, it’s a cold winter in Odessa. But they pay fair and treat us fair. Told us we’ll be working with them for the rest of our lives. They got big plans for everybody.”
Ga-thump. The sound of the eight ball hitting the bottom of the opposite side pocket signaled the game’s end.
Manuel stood up, resting his hand on top of the vertical cue stick. He claimed victory. “Five beers and I still run the fucking table. Anyone want to challenge El Rey?”
“Hell no,” Carlos answered. “Everyone drink your beer and let’s go.” Carlos polished off his Lone Star and grabbed his denim jacket from the coat hook. He patted Juan on the back. “Juan, want to go with us? We’re going to Maria’s near Mendoza for food, dancing, and good times with the señoritas.”
Juan liked these guys. “Never