by Rory Harper
“How come Tiny gets away with all this stuff? If he’s as rotten as he looks to be, somebody should have fixed his wagon a long time ago.”
“I imagine some have tried. But he’s big and mean, and in case you haven’t figured, he don’t fight real clean, either. And his sponsor happens to be the regional vice-president of Hydroco.”
“What’s a sponsor?”
“Well, I guess I’m your sponsor, for instance. Your sponsor is the person that looks out for you, helps you on up the ladder, bails you out when you screw up. Now, the big oil companies, some of ’em, play heavy games that way. If you don’t have a decent sponsor, you don’t go nowhere in the company, no matter how good you are at your job. You have a good sponsor, he takes care of you, and you climb the ladder, even if you’re a asshole like Tiny.”
“How come somebody would be Tiny’s sponsor?”
“Probably Tiny does dirty work for him that most folks wouldn’t touch. Having a sponsor ain’t a one-way deal, it’s one of those back-scratch affairs. Your sponsor helps you climb the ladder, you help him keep from falling off it. Nobody can survive by himself in a large corporation. You got to have troops backing you up, snitching for you, doing stuff to take out your competition.”
“Well, if you’re my sponsor, what am I supposed to do for you?”
“Work your butt off and take care of Sprocket. We don’t play the sponsor game like the oil companies. I sponsored you onto the crew because I believe you have a natural aptitude for this business. You work hard without bitching too much, and I ain’t never seen Sprocket take to anybody as quick as he did with you.”
“Same here. Sprocket’s great.”
“Well, we’ll see how you feel once the new wears off. Meantime, we got to go arrange for some juice for Sprocket.
* * *
Three days later, Sprocket was still drilling his gums off. Doc and Razer figured he was down close to nineteen thousand feet. We hadn’t had him pull out of the hole to run wireline in and find out because there didn’t seem no point to it. It would just cost time we couldn’t afford, and nothing to be gained by the knowledge.
In the early afternoon, Big Red pulled up onto Munchkin’s location, closely followed by a Casing Critter.
Doc took off his silver-metal hardhat and wiped his forehead with his bandanna. “That just don’t make no sense. Why the hell are they out setting casing at this point? They sure as hell ain’t TD’ed. We’d of seen that.”
Razor pointed. “Doc, they ain’t running pipe. Pearl’s up on Big Red, and they’re mixing concrete.”
Doc looked thoughtful for a second, then threw his hat down on the ground, hard. He booted it fifteen feet on the bounce. “That’s goddam wonderful! It ain’t like we’re made out of money or nothing!”
I was confused. Which wasn’t that out of the ordinary. Only thing to do was ask more stupid questions, like usual. I did, and Doc finally calmed down enough to answer.
“Chances are real good that Munchkin has hit a bad lost circulation zone.” He explained that if you hit a zone with a pressure lower than the hydrostatic pressure of your column of drilling fluid, it would drink the mud out of the hole until the pressures equalized. Some zones could suck up everything you could put in the hole for a month, and ask for more.
Big Red would be pumping down some cement to squeeze off the zone. It didn’t look like they were planning on screwing around that way for too long, since they had casing coming on location. If you can’t plug off, you just go down with casing and cement above and below the zone, isolating your hole from it.
“Well, can’t we do something to keep from losing circulation in the first place?”
“Nope. Shallower, we’d maybe try some cellophane chips in the mud, but at this depth the bottom-hole temperature is so high they’d burn up before they got down.”
Six hours later our hole lost circulation, and Sprocket wasn’t real happy about it. He quickly went dry down to his drillhead, and he wanted us to do something about it.
I stayed with him while Doc and Razer headed over to the edge of the lease in Munchkin’s direction, and motioned for Pearl to wander over. I rubbed Sprocket’s hide and sang to him, trying to get his eyeballs to slow their spin. He was coming out of the hole, after drilling dry for a couple of dozen more feet. We hoped he hadn’t messed up his drilling cones.
Doc and Razer came back looking discouraged. “Pearl says they’ll be cementing casing on Munchkin’s location soon as they can get it in the hole. They just tested and the thief zone won’t squeeze off.” He wandered over in front of the dinner pot cooking over the fire and lifted the lid, looking in without much real interest. “Looks like Tiny realized what was going on out here when the call came in for Big Red and got a corner on the market. Pearl says the other four Cementers in the field are out on Hydroco locations bouncing from well to well. Big Red moves over to Uncle Foots’ location when he hits the thief zone, then he’s got a couple’a other deals with Hydroco he’s on standby for.”
“Uncle Foots hasn’t lost circulation yet?” I said. “That means Sprocket was ahead of him.”
Doc grunted. “Them zones don’t necessarily run horizontal. But I like to think Sprocket was ahead. Don’t matter, though. We ain’t going to be making hole again until the mating drill’s over. And probably not until Tiny figures a way to run us plumb out of the field. It’s hard to fight all the money he’s got behind him.”
Razer looked over towards Munchkin. “Doc, seems to me that since Sprocket was deepest, and since him and Munchkin are both down to the same thief zone, they could maybe both go into the hole, and—”
Doc frowned and shook his head. “It don’t work that way, Razer.
Razer wouldn’t meet his eyes, just shuffled his feet. “Just a idea.”
“Not the best one you ever had. I wouldn’t ask it of Munchkin or of Sprocket. We won’t say no more about it.”
I opened my mouth to ask what they were talking about. Doc saw me and grinned for a second. He made the squiggly worm sign with his finger inching up his forearm. “Got to figure this one out for yourself, Henry Lee. It’s got to do with the mating drill, boy.”
I shut my mouth. I thought I had already figured out the mating drill. Looked like there was more to it.
* * *
Nobody spoke much through dinner. Afterwards, I was sitting around the fire with the tip of Sprocket’s tongue in my lap. I’d pulled back the foreskin that normally covered it when he wasn’t drilling. His cones hadn’t been damaged, but the central spike’s point had been somewhat blunted and scored, so I was working with a diamond-dust file, honing it back to gleaming obsidian sharpness. It would regenerate in time anyway, but Sprocket appreciated the attention, and it’s always good to keep your equipment in shape. I’d just finished filing and was greasing its length when Spanky Blankenship slipped into the silent circle.
Without a word, Doc passed him the bottle. Spanky looked upset. He took a swig. “We didn’t want Uncle Foots to win this way,” he muttered. “It ain’t right.”
“Not your fault,” Doc said. “Tiny—”
“Fuck Tiny and the horse he rode in on. I got a mind to tell him to shove the contract and head on down the road. Maybe collapse the goddam hole first.”
“No reason to cut off your nose, Spanky,” Doc said. “Uncle Foots’ll make a fine daddy, and there ain’t enough Drillers around that we can afford to waste a mating.”
A couple or five drinks later, Earl the Pearl wavered in beside Spanky. He was a tall, lanky character, usually half-loaded, always laughing and telling jokes. He wasn’t laughing now. At least he brought his own bottle, although he’d already started it on its way to being empty.
“Your hands told me I might find you here, Spanky.” He took a sip and passed his bottle to Doc. “It ain’t right.” He looked apologetically at Spanky. “Winner’s sup
posed to take the prize. Sprocket was ahead.”
Spanky shook his head indignantly. “No such thing. I figure that thief zone’s on a slope.”
“Maybe.” Pearl shook his head. “Still ain’t right, though.”
“Yeah. Tiny shouldn’t go interfering in a mating drill. It ain’t right.”
“Uh-huh. I wouldn’t allow it if I was you, Spanky.”
“Me?” Spanky looked outraged. The bottle got around to me and I took another sip. The fog seemed to be coming in early tonight. Spanky struggled to his feet. “Me? All I’m trying to do is make a well! It’s you that got them in a bind. Getting yourself put on standby by Hydroco for the next forty years.”
Pearl looked guilty. “He offered a bunch of money to everybody back at the camp, Spanky. And nobody didn’t know ol’ Sprocket was up against the wall.”
“Well, it ain’t my fault you’re greedy, is it?” Spanky said belligerently. “Why don’t you tell Tiny to stick it, and come over here and cement Sprocket’s well when you finish mine?”
“Can’t do that, much as I’d like to,” Pearl said mournfully. “A man’s only as good as his word, and I promised as soon as I left your location, I’d head over to this well right outside of Goldsmith and do some block squeezing. Nothing in between. Now, if we could run some concrete for Sprocket while we’re still on your location … naw, that don’t make no sense.”
Him and Spanky stared at each other for a minute. “How much steel hose you got to spare on the rig, Spanky?” Pearl asked.
“Don’t know, but I can find out.” Ignoring the rest of us, they stood up and staggered together into the darkness toward Uncle Foots’ location. “We can flange up a bunch of connections if we need to use five-inch hose with three-inch, or whatever,” Spanky said. “The lease boundary’s about a hundred yards from Sprocket’s wellhead. We move you over to the edge, and—” Their figures had been fading out of sight, when Pearl suddenly swung about.
“Damn! I almost forgot.” He came back into the circle around the fire. “Y’all are a bunch of fine fellas, but I do believe somebody here is trying to keep my bottle.”
I tossed it to him. It was practically empty.
Doc and Razer and the rest of us were staring at him, glassy-eyed. He caught the bottle, then shook the capped end at Doc. “Big Red’s gonna run cement into your hole tomorrow. I was you, I’d get my butt in gear and hunt up some pipe to go with it.” Then he vanished into the darkness.
* * *
Doc let me go with him to the camp. Schooling up the worm. I suspected once I lost my wormhood I’d do more real work and less running around, so I was thinking on how I could remain incompetent as long as possible without nobody noticing. We rode off in Mooney’s pickup, which he’d let us have the use of as long as he was banged up in the infirmary.
The camp was quiet by the time we got in, around two in the morning. Lots of tents around, but not too many critters. Guess most of them were out on location. Doc cut the engine of the pickup right as we pulled off the Farm and Market, so as not to wake up anybody. We climbed out of the cab and threaded our way among the tents.
The casing crews pooled and coordinated their production, so we headed straight for the pipe rack, on the far side of the camp. The camp was dark, but a full moon was out, and for a change the weather was good, a few high clouds motionless in the sky, so we didn’t have much trouble finding our way.
When we got there, it looked deserted. Hundreds of casing joints of varying diameters were laid down, enclosed by a locked chain link fence. We climbed over it and started walking down the rows.
“Our last pipe was nine-and-five-eighths, down to fifteen thousand feet,” Doc reminded me quietly. “So we have to hang about four thousand feet of seven-inch or smaller pipe off its bottom. We need an API rating of N-80 or better. I’d prefer some C-95, myself. Keep a eye out for a stack of that.”
There didn’t seem to be too much small pipe in stock, but it wasn’t too long before we come up on a heap of just what we were looking for. The tag on the end of the center joint said the pile contained five thousand feet of pipe, and had been produced by a Casing Critter named Maniac.
“Looking good,” Doc said, as we climbed back over the fence. “Now we need to see what Casing Critters are in the camp. If there ain’t any, we’ll wake up Zeke and see who’s likely to be available next.”
“Unless Tiny’s got them sewed up, too,” I said.
“Don’t even think like that, Henry Lee. The son of a bitch can’t stay ahead of us all the way.”
There wasn’t a single Cementer, or a Mud Mixer, or, most importantly, a Casing Critter, around. We wandered around in the dark for a while, and then finally gave up.
Then we realized we didn’t know which tent Zeke slept in. We didn’t want to wake up anybody if it could be helped. So we wandered around the camp some more, hoping to find some structure with his name on it, or directions, or something.
After a useless half-hour of that, we were near the entrance to the camp. Doc leaned on the fender of Mr. Mooney’s pickup while he rolled a smoke and lit up.
“I give up, Henry Lee. Let’s go wake up somebody and find out where the hell Zeke hangs his hard hat.”
Right then, a Casing Critter came trundling up the road to the camp’s entrance. Doc yelped and jumped out in front of it, waving his arms and shouting. It spooked and jumped around some, but managed to restrain itself from stomping him into strawberry preserves.
After a few seconds, a couple of heads stuck out on top of the Casing Critter. “You hit another cow, Lady Jane?” A sleepy voice came from near the front. “You know the rule—you kill it, you eat it.”
“Star!” Doc shouted. “We’d like to do a little business!”
“Doc? We been up almost four days. Sabrina’s about in a coma. You come back tomorrow afternoon.”
“Can’t wait, honey. We’re in a bind. Lost circulation.”
Her face was silhouetted in the light thrown by the headlights of a pickup coming down the Farm and Market. Made my heart hurt.
“Aw, damn.” She turned to the others who’d woken. “Go back to bed, ladies. I’ll dicker us a deal and line up some transport for the casing. We all oughta be able to get a couple of hours sleep before we gotta set up.”
She slid down Lady Jane’s side and strode over to us. “Nothing personal, Doc, but this is gonna cost you.” She must have been real tired, because her zipper was zipped all the way up.
“Hi, Star,” I said.
“Howdy, Henry Lee,” she said, without any expression. “Now, about this deal, Doc.”
Doc opened his mouth just as the vehicle that had been coming down the road slowed and turned in. A shiny red pickup with a crew cab pulled around Lady Jane’s side. The brights were in our eyes. All I could see was three figures climbing out.
“When it rains it pours,” Doc muttered beside me.
Yeah, it was Tiny and his goons.
“Well, well!” Tiny said. “Looks like we got a party here. Mind if we invite ourselves?”
“Just doing some business,” Doc said.
“Me, too. I heard Lady Jane was done with that production string we sent her on, and come to put her on standby for another deal we got coming up.”
“We was here first, Tiny.” By this time, Tiny had come right up to us and was practically in Doc’s face. He was an inch or so taller than me, so he towered over Doc. His goons weren’t midgets either.
“Fine. I’ll do some business with you tonight, too. ’Less you still got your usual case of the yellows.”
“I’ll take you up after the well gets made, Tiny. We just come in to get a Casing Critter lined out.”
Tiny made his left hand into a fist. I tensed up, but Doc didn’t move. “Too bad.” Tiny cracked the knuckles on his left hand. “All the Casing Critters is on standby for Hydr
oco business.”
“Lady Jane ain’t on standby.” The interruption came from Star. She moved to try to step in between Doc and Tiny, but there wasn’t room. Tiny put a hand on her shoulder.
“You don’t do business with nobody but me, long as you’re in this field. I been giving Mooney and Doc enough rope to hang themselves, and now I got ’em by the short and curlies. Mooney’s hocked up to his eyebrows. In four days, his bank loan comes due. He ain’t gonna get an extension, and without a producing well, he won’t get no money anywhere else. Hydroco’s gonna buy the note.”
“Get your hand off me,” Star said.
“Didn’t you hear me?” Tiny growled. “You do business with Hydroco, you silly bitch!” He shook her roughly, and I launched myself at him. Doc blocked me before I could get to him.
“You keep those two idiots of his off me, Henry Lee. This ol’ boy here is mine.”
The next few minutes was kinda confused. I been fighting since about the time I could stand up to get knocked down. I grew up with four brothers, none of ’em angels. And there’s some rough boys lives back in the woods around Hemphill. For a couple of years, once I started getting my growth on me, it seemed like every one of them had to try a time or two to whittle me down to size after school. So I’d had some practice at this particular sport.
Most fellas lie when they tell about how they planned this strategy or made that smooth move or used a clever feint to sucker the guy they was fighting. Mostly all there is to it is moving as fast as you can, trying to hurt the other guy enough to stop him fighting, and in the meantime keep him from hurting you more than you can handle.
Practice helps, though. And I was glad to have had it. ’Cause this wasn’t no Marquis of Queensbury deal. It was the kind of fight that sometimes leaves people gimped for life, or maybe dead. If I’d have had time, I’d have been scared.
Both of them looked at Tiny. He nodded in my direction, and, flat-footed, launched a kick at Doc’s crotch. I saw Doc move back enough for it to miss, then I had problems of my own.
