Petrogypsies (4 page)

Sprocket Goes Courting

“It’s a matter of pride to come into a new camp with your tanks topped off, Henry Lee,” Doc said as we came off State 302 late in the afternoon. “Shows folks you been taking care of business.” The guy at the only filling station in town didn’t act too surprised when the gleaming black, hundred-and-twelve-foot length of Sprocket pulled up to the pumps, and Doc and me popped out of a hole on top and slid down his flank to order eight-hundred gallons of high-test. But he did want cash up front. Doc whipped out a roll big enough to choke a hog and started peeling off bills. After Exoco paid off on the well drilled on the farm, the Sprocket Limited Partnership was flush again.

I looked around and didn’t see anything too interesting. Ain’t many towns have a name that fits them. This one was called Notrees, and it fit like skin. Then again, we weren’t out here because of what was above the ground.

I took off my goggles and wiped road dust from my face with the bandanna I snatched out of Doc’s back pocket.

Doc looked at me. “Hey, worm, get to pumping. Me and this fella’s gonna be busy counting money for awhile.”

“Yes, sir. Happy to, sir. Please don’t beat me no more, sir.”

Doc grinned through his beard and went back to business.

I pulled the pump hose loose and dragged it over to Sprocket and stuck it in his eating mouth. A quick, happy little ripple pulsed down the length of his body when he got his first taste of that sweet gasoline. I reached up and scratched hard at the crease a couple of feet above his mouth. He moaned in pleasure, and the crease opened lazily to reveal a deep green eye twice the size of my head. Sprocket and me stared at each other affectionately while he sucked his fill.

Presently, Doc and the filling-station guy came around the side, talking.

“Farm and Market 181 crosses about five miles east of town,” the filling station guy said, pointing. “Cut off to the left and the main camp’s about a mile and a half further on. Must be about forty or fifty animals up there now. Say, which kind of animal is this one here? I still can’t tell ’em apart.”

“This here is the best goddam Driller in the oilpatch, Mister Oglesby. His name’s Sprocket, and he just finished making the deepest producing hole known to living man.”

The guy shook his head admiringly. “You oil gypsies are the braggin’est people I ever seen. Every one I talk to says their animal’s the finest there is.”

“Most of ’em are liars,” Doc admitted. “But I ain’t.”

* * *

Eleven of us made up Sprocket’s drilling crew. We’d all washed up and put on our best jumpsuits and tuned up the instruments that needed tuning. Sprocket’s hundreds of feet fell into a loose dancing stroll as we rounded a bend in the road and sighted off to the left the dozens of tents and animals that made up the camp. Every man stood waist high, poked out of a hole on top of Sprocket. Being the pusher on the rig, Doc had the room most forward, so he poked out of a hole just back of Sprocket’s bullet head. He faced backward toward us, raised his conductor’s baton up high, then kicked the band into a jazzy tune called “Downhole Dreamer.”

By the time we got to the center of the camp we were setting that song on fire. Razer poured out a flowing river of music from his fiddle, underlining and clarifying the complicated melody. I still had a long way to go before I’d be able to play guitar with the band, so I still kept time by banging the rhythm sticks together.

Before we were halfway through the song, gypsies from the camp had surrounded Sprocket, many of them adding their own instruments to the music-making. Sprocket danced in a rippling circle through the final, drawn-out chorus.

When the last note died away, Doc nodded and slid his baton back into the pocket running down his left leg. “If you boys worked as hard as you play, we’d all be rich.” He surveyed the camp and called out. “Who’s camp boss around here? We heard there was some hole bein’ made in these parts and come for a piece of it.”

An older man stepped forward from the crowd. “We can always use another Driller. Welcome to the field. I’m Zeke King, and I’d be honored if you gentlemen would allow me to buy you a round.”

We adjourned to a large tent nearby, with folks following us in until it was pretty near filled. A couple of casing gypsies worked behind the bar.

After the first couple of doses of heart-starter and some getting acquainted, Doc and Zeke got around to talking business. I only heard a few snatches of the conversation due to the noise in the tent and the fact that the casing gypsy who served my drinks was cuter than a month-old foal. She kept stealing my attention, what with the way she gracefully sashayed back and forth, ever now and then flashing her electric blue eyes in my direction.

“Hydroco’s got the field purty-well sewed up,” Zeke said. “About a year ago, they came in and drilled a couple of test holes, then P and A’ed ’em all and left.” I already knew what he was leading up to then, from bull sessions with Doc and the rest of the crew on the way here—you Plug and Abandon a well when you don’t find any hydrocarbons worth producing. Sometimes companies do it to fake out the competition.

“So,” Zeke continued, “nine months later, when everybody had about forgotten ’em, their land men slipped in and quietly bought up lease options on damn near every piece of property in sight. A couple of small independents caught on toward the last and managed to get a few leases, but Hydroco’s playing hardball.” He shrugged. “Tough on the independents, especially while we’re running past the full capacity of the camp here, but it makes for nice prices when it comes time to dicker for service.”

Doc nodded. “Yeah, I see how they could pull off something like that in this godforsaken wilderness. Must be costing ’em, though.”

“They act like they don’t care. It’s a small field, but they figure there’s enough petroleum down there to make it worthwhile to go for it all.”

I lost track of the conversation for a minute or two again, because that little casing gypsy came by and refilled my glass. Her dark green jumpsuit was unzipped further than a preacher might like. In the process of pouring, she bent over a bit more than was strictly necessary and handed me a couple of glimpses of heaven. Paralyzed my mind for a while. The sweet smile she gave me didn’t help, either.

By the time I regained consciousness, another fella had joined Doc and Zeke. He wasn’t wearing a jumpsuit—just jeans, a white shirt, and work boots. They spoke in low tones, with the other fella’s face changing from hopeful to frustrated.

Doc poured a dose from the bottle him and Zeke shared. “I’d surely be happy to do business with y’all if we can work out a deal, Mr. Mooney, but me and my boys just finished a week on the road. We’d like a day or two to rest and get the lay of the land.”

The fella smiled unhappily. “Well, Mr. Miller, just keep in mind that I’m willing to pay premium prices for your rig time, with good bonuses.”

Doc stuck out his hand and Mr. Mooney reluctantly shook it. “I’ll keep you in mind, sir,” Doc said. “We’ll settle things one way or the other before too long.”

The fella handed him a business card and started to drift away. “Remember, I got a room at the Driscoll Hotel in town.”

Doc raised his glass and nodded. “Yessir. I’ll remember that.”

Shoulders slumped, Mr. Mooney left the tent.

I came up behind Doc and touched his elbow. He turned and grinned at me. “Oh, howdy, Henry Lee. Zeke, this here’s Henry Lee MacFarland, new worm we picked up on the way over from that mess at the Morgan City field I was telling you about. He’d appreciate it if you could tell him the name of that little honey behind the bar, the one with the black hair down to her sitter. And if she’s hooked up with anybody right now.”

I expect I turned red. Zeke laughed and stuck out his hand. “Pleasure meeting you, Henry Lee. Everybody calls her Star, and she ain’t tied down that I know of. You got a fair shot at her, since I hear she likes ’em big and ugly.”

I nodded and kept from crunching his hand to splinters. When I turned fifteen, Papa took me out behind the barn and convinced me to handle normal-sized people gently-like. They break too easy.

I turned to Doc. “I couldn’t help noticing—”

“Yeah, I noticed that you couldn’t help noticing.”

“Uh … not that. I mean, it looked like you was turning down an offer by that Mooney fella to drill a well for him.”

Doc nodded and took a sip from his shot glass. “Sure was. Don’t believe in swimming upstream if it can be helped. He runs Mooney Producing. Him and anybody that works for him is going to have a hard time from Hydroco. Besides—” He looked at Zeke. “How many leases he got?”

“Three. And they run out in four months if he don’t make hole on them.”

Doc shrugged. “Hydroco may drill more’n a hundred wells hereabouts. You figure from there, Henry Lee.”

It wasn’t hard to figure.

“So,” Doc continued, “long about tomorrow morning I’ll make a call on the Drilling Superintendent for Hydroco, and we’ll do some business.”

“Don’t believe you’ll need to wait till then,” Zeke said. “He’s coming in the tent now.”

We swung casually around to look toward the entrance. Framed in the opening by the setting sun was a fella that looked to be the size of a grizzly bear. With not much less hair on him.

“Name’s Jack Small. Everybody calls him—”

“Everybody calls him Tiny,” Doc said in a voice so cold it must have hurt his teeth. “We’ve met.” He leaned back and put his elbows up behind him on the bar, with the bottle hanging loosely from his right hand.

The fella at the entrance looked around the tent and spotted Zeke. He started through the crowd in our direction. About halfway, he saw Doc and stopped in his tracks. Their eyes locked up. After a second he moved forward again until he stood in front of Doc.

Doc stayed leaning back casually, eyes staring straight into Tiny’s eyes. “Henry Lee, meet Mr. Tiny Small,” he said, smiling. “I owe him a big favor. Four years ago he was the company man on a hole we was drilling down near Thompson’s Bottom. I was
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under Cutbait Benton. Nice old guy. I moved up to being Sprocket’s pusher after Tiny murdered him. Thanks for the help, old buddy.”

“You’re a lyin’ son of a bitch,” Tiny growled. “It was a fair fight.”

“Fair, my ass. Cutbait was half your size, and you didn’t even give him time to back away before you broke his skull.”

It happened quick. Tiny’s right hand shot out. Without even thinking, I grabbed his wrist before his hand wrapped around Doc’s throat. It was like yanking on a crowbar set in cement, but his hand moved back a few inches. Meantime, Doc had smashed his bottle against the bar and pressed the jagged end against Tiny’s stomach.

All three of us held in place for a couple of breaths, thinking about the next move. Finally, Tiny growled and stepped back, twisting his wrist loose from my grip and glaring at me. Then he turned on Doc. “Put down the bottle, and we’ll do some business, right here, right now.”

Doc showed his teeth. This time it wasn’t anything close to being a smile. “I ain’t in the mood for dancing, old buddy. D’ruther carve you up seriously. Grab a bottle for your own self.”

For just a second, Tiny looked around like he might take Doc up, then he turned and moved toward the entrance. “You ain’t never working for Hydroco again,” he threw back over his shoulder. “Not in this field nor anyplace else!”

Doc, me, and everybody else in the silent tent took a shaky breath when he was gone. Doc looked regretfully at the weapon in his hand. “Well, hell, it was almost empty, anyway,” he muttered.

* * *

The next morning, Doc and Razer vanished right after breakfast, taking Sprocket with them. I felt disappointed because Star’s crew had been called out to location right after the little scene with Tiny. I hadn’t even got to introduce myself. Now it looked like we might be heading on down the road before we even got properly settled in. But I wasn’t as hungover as most of the crew, so I fiddled away the morning working on some junked-up hose connections that’d been left behind.

They came back around noon. We packed up and headed out to make location on one of the three Mooney Producing leases.

Mr. Mooney had to guide us to the lease. It was barren, flat, dusty country all the way. When we drew up on it, a mile from the nearest road, I saw that we weren’t exactly alone. We all climbed out of Sprocket and Doc hurried over to Mr. Mooney’s pickup truck. I tagged along. The way to graduate from being a worm is to poke your nose into everything that nobody stops you from.