The carbon steel was cool to the touch as I reached in my waistband, switching the manual safety from “S” to “F” for fire, and then, doing my best Jack Hoxie, I sauntered into the Star Canyon Restaurant & Bar, with my cuete still concealed, locked and loaded. Chuck caught me out of the corner of his eye as soon as I set foot inside—or so I thought.
For about two decades, his Amarillo-based company had bucked a trend in the oil and gas business—he did it by handing out pink slips to hicks who couldn’t cut it in the oilfields, or who had the slightest tendency to get lippy or show ‘tude and lock horns with the other roughnecks; he did it by smooth-talking the West Texas ranchers who’d granted him mineral rights and he did it by cutting costs when the market called for it. He’d stayed ahead of the curve, and he’d resisted acquisition by those inhuman corporations that dominated drilling and extraction in the Permian Basin, corporations that were capable of harvesting tens of millions of barrels a day. However, after he had a face-to-face with his accountant in that taxidermied office on Tarrington Ave., wherein the latter gave him a layman’s rundown of the pesky EBITDA along with spreadsheets showing diminishing cash flow and accrued liabilities, (a collateral effect of the sale of the ZZ Ranch and amid this 1980s oil glut), he had no choice but to sign on the dotted line when Texaco made him a multimillion dollar acquisition offer.
“Hell, I didn’t want to sell it off! The first time their twerp lawyer called me up I told him flat-out to go f himself. Well, I think I touched a nerve—‘cause he made a big fuss and said he’d see me in court. Thing is, when WTI dropped to $10 a barrel because of them A-rabs and I-ranians, we just couldn’t stay afloat. That and the supermajors were buyin up all the mineral rights and gettin concessions from the Railroad Commission for new leases…the time came to cash in my chips. Say la vee.” Joe Dinero, a Vegas type in a plaid jacket and spit-shined shoes, had been thinking about blondes and brunettes while Chuck was rambling—and by now I’d sat at the bar, too, unnoticed by the other two gentlemen. Joe spoke:
“Take the money and run, is what I say. You musta made a killing. How much was the buyout, if you don’t mind me asking. You make off with a cool couple million?”
“Yep. Bout that much. It was a leveraged deal.” Chuck replied, and he was duded up like a yuppie cowboy, in a plum-colored suit, double-breasted jacket and lapels with a stiff-collared shirt underneath, admittedly spiffy in those snakeskin boots, but fat and over the hill—corn-fed and corpulent. There was more hustle and bustle in the restaurant now, and the sound of clattering plates and cutlery echoing off the terra cotta walls with its longhorn iron sconces. Chuck beamed as 16 fl. oz. of Ziegenbock beer, amber-bodied but with too much fizz, was courteously set on his coaster—then he continued.
“Anyway, I agreed to take some of their shareholders on a tour of our Wolfcamp rig, over in Reeves County. They came out at the butt crack of dawn wearin’ hard hats and when Rick was showin’ em the wellhead and explainin’ how we use the excavator to dig a big pit around it so we can install the BOP, one of those little worms just kind of blurts out that he thinks our equipment could use an upgrade. That little turd was sorry as soon as he said it, ‘cuz suddenly Rick got real quiet and just stared at him, darin’ him to go on talkin’.”
“Hehehe. What happened, did he cold-cock him or somethin’?” Joe Dinero asked, with a twang that sounded as fake as rhinestones.
“Well, nothin’ really. I didn’t want Rick to get hauled away in handcuffs so I said ‘Gentlemen, I want to show ya’ll around some more, so if you’ll follow me to that buildin’ over there…’ And that was that. Unfortunately, I had to let Rick go after that incident. The company said he wasn’t a good fit. Assholes. But I ain’t worried about him. Knowin’ Rick, he’s probably already drivin’ a crawler crane or settin’ up gin poles out in the Spraberry Play somewhere. Like I said, they forced my hand, but it was…”
“Hey!” I yelled, stopping him mid-sentence.
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