King Con

Chapter Twenty-Three.

THE WEST COAST PLATFORM DRILLING COMPANY WAS in a warehouse district in the small town of Livingston, twenty miles southeast of Modesto. The sign on the corrugated tin building was freshly painted and showed a derrick with oil shooting out of the top. In the fenced yard were rolls of cable and used parts. A roof light threw its glare across the enclosed parking lot. The limo pulled in and stopped. It was 10:15 P.M.

Beano looked over at Dakota, who had her eyes closed now and was breathing with difficulty. Her head was tilted back, resting on the back seat; her skin color was pasty.

"You gotta take her to a hospital," Beano said.

Tommy looked over at Dakota for a long, speculative moment. "Why?" he finally said.

"She looks horrible. Something's wrong with her."

"Are we talkin' about the same cunt who put something in my drink so I'd pass out, so you two fucks could run the table on me at my own club and get my brother so pissed he starts cussing?"

"She needs to be looked at," Beano insisted.

"Hey, Dr. Dipshit, or whatever your fuckin' name is-"

"It's Douglas," Beano said stubbornly.

"You called the tune, Douglas, this is the fucking music. Now let's go see this asshole." He grabbed Beano and pushed him out of the limo. As Beano passed in front of Dakota, she opened her eyes and they exchanged looks. Beano didn't like what he saw there.

They were all out of the limo. Only Keith was left behind with Dakota. They moved to a side door of the corrugated metal warehouse. Beano knocked; Duffy was standing right behind him.

"Donovan, it's me. It's Dr. Clark and Dr. Sutton," Beano yelled, and in a minute, the side door was unbolted and Steven Bates was standing there, wearing old coveralls with W.C.P.D. stitched on the pocket. He was wiping his hands with an old rag and looking warily out the slit in the door at Beano and Duffy.

"Dr. Clark, Dr. Sutton." He nodded; then his eyes shifted to Tommy and the two wide-bodies behind him. "Who are they?" Steve asked.

Tommy moved in front of Beano and stuck the automatic in Steve's face. "I'm your new drilling partner."

Steve looked down at the barrel of the 9mm SIG-Sauer and swallowed hard, dismay on his sun-reddened features.

"Inside. We ain't havin' this stockholders' meeting in the street. Let's go." And Tommy pushed Beano and Duffy into the warehouse. Jimmy Freeze and Wade Summerland came in last and closed the door.

The inside of the warehouse had been carefully dressed by Steven. He had leased the building and rented everything. Two large portable water pumps with metal derricks that were used for agricultural field irrigation were on rolling pallets in the center of the warehouse floor. Even though they were water pumps, they looked enough like oil derricks to fool the uninitiated layman. Steve had helped the deception by labeling one OIL PUMPING UNIT C, the other OIL PUMPING UNIT J. He had rolls of cable strewn around and a forklift parked in plain view. A small safe was conspicuous in the corner. Everything was on a two-week rental from a farm supply company just two blocks away. The hand props he had rented from a dive shop in Modesto.

"What the heck's this?" Steve Bates said, as he looked down at the gun in Tommy's hand.

"You ain't askin' the questions, Joe Bob, you're answerin' 'em. I wanna hear about this od field you found in Oak Crest."

Steve Bates looked warily at Beano, then at Tommy. "There's no field," he stammered. "That's just a buncha dry holes. Wish t'heck we'd a'hit something, by God."

"Forget it, Donovan," Beano said. "He's seen all the graphs, the seismic shots. We told him everything."

"You told him?" The betrayal in Steven Bates's voice was nothing short of Shakespearean.

"Let's try and get past that, Donovan. The fact is we need more money anyway. We can't control this thing with just a hundred thousand shares. We're outta dme." Beano pushed his glasses up on his nose.

Steven Bates looked at Beano and then his eyes slid back to Tommy. "I don't know what he's talking about," he said, but his voice was hesitant now.

"Then lemme put it in line for you," Tommy said. "I wanna see this field in Oak Crest and you buncha pricks is gonna take me there tonight. How far away is that?"

"'Bout an hour," Beano said.

"Dr. Clark," Steve said, "this was a tight hole. How could ya tell 'em?"

"I didn't have a choice. He followed us back from Sabre Bay. He found everything. He's got the stock certificates. Besides, I think we should take him as a partner. We're better off letting him in on this. Believe me, we can't control it ourselves anyway."

Tommy glared at Beano. "I'm not in on anything yet, asshole. I'm on a fact-finding mission, and I'm tryin' t'get my million dollars back. So far, all you got from me is some mild interest. If I don't get a lot more info in the next few hours, I'm gonna cash in these stock certificates, get my money back, and you guys are all deader than junkie luck." He thumbed the hammer back and pointed it at Steve. "Are we straight?" Steve nodded. "Then keep talkin'."

"The Fentress County Petroleum and Gas Company stock is falling," Steve Bates said. "We bought it at ten, it's already at eight. The rumor is out that Fentress County can't make their bank payments. Their cash flow is too low. Buncha big stockholders are already calling for a meeting in San Francisco at the main office. They wanna liquidate the company. It's hit the street already that they're in trouble. Even if you cash in those hundred thousand shares, you're not gonna get back much more than seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars."

Tommy's eyes were roaming the warehouse. "You use this shit to drill them elimination wells?" he asked, motioning at the equipment, his mind already racing ahead.

"Delineation wells," Steve Bates corrected him. "Yeah, them small rigs only drill a six-eighths-of-an-inch hole that we side-cement with sleeveless piping. These units are good for slant drilling or directional drilling. Once we hit oil or natural gas, we put on one a'these," Steve said, picking up a small gauge attached to rubber hosing that had been rented from the Modesto Dive Shack. The gauge was actually part of an air-flow regulator.

Tommy took the piece of equipment out of Steve Bates's hand and looked at it. "What the hell is it?" he said.

"It's a flow meter," Steve said. "We use it to determine velocity of fluid. We use all kinds a'different ones. That one yer holdin' is a positive displacement unit, but we got turbine units and electromagnetic flow meters… depending on what we're tryin' to determine." As he spoke he was looking at the gun in Tommy's hand.

"I don't give a shit about any of that. How much oil is down there?"

"Hard to say," Steve said. "Dr. Clark thinks we got a major pay zone. I like t'keep my estimates on the conservative side."

"Like what?"

"We hooked up the PD meter, that's yer Positive Displacement meter, to the flow meter. We can estimate gross volume, using a flow rate formula. According to that test, seems like we got a pretty big pool down there. Could be half-a-billion barrels or more… maybe much more."

"The size of that stratigraphic trap is huge," Beano interrupted. "Covers almost six hundred acres. Only reason we missed it ten months ago is that our original seismics misidentified the site. We were off by half a mile. The field we were looking for is actually a little south of where we were doing the seismic shots, but by slant drilling, we got into the main trap." Beano was so excited when he spoke about it, his eyes were flashing. He was believing his con and selling it.

"You say you need more money to control the company? How much?" Tommy asked, nibbling at the bait.

"Used to be we needed maybe ten million, but I think, with the price fall on the stock, we could control it with five or six," Beano said, "providing the S.E.C. doesn't freeze the stock on us because of erratic fluctuations."

"Five million plus my million you already invested?" Tommy asked.

"That oughta do 'er," Steve Bates said, and took the diving air-flow meter out of Tommy's hand. The rule was you never let the mark hold a prop too long.

"How do I know this is all on the level?" Tommy asked, his eyes narrowing.

Beano looked at Steve hopefully. Steve finally exhaled and moved over to the small safe, kneeled, and dialed a combination. He pulled open the door and grabbed several long metal canisters that were stored inside on racks. Each canister had a glass window. Steve held each one up to the light, reading the label before finding the one he wanted.

"The fuck is all this?" Tommy said.

"Side core samples," Beano explained. "This is how we finally hit the pool. Take a look at this." He took one of the cylinders from Steve and handed it to Tommy, pointing at the window in its glass side. "This core sample was from sixteen hundred feet down. You can see from the brown color that we're already getting discoloration from the oil shale. That means the porosity of the top soil has absorbed the oil at the roof of the trap. That's why I think this is a full trap with a lot more than half-a-billion barrels," Beano insisted.

Tommy took the sample tube and stuck it in his pocket.

"You must leave that here," Beano said, alarmed. "It's part of the drilling record, eventually it will have to go to the F.E.R.C."

"Hey, asshole, ain't you figured out yet who's in charge? I'm gettin' my own geologist. I'm gettin' this checked. You're not dealin' with some chucklehead here."

Beano and Steve exchanged nervous looks.

"Okay. Let's say for now, I'm interested," Tommy went on, "so let's go take a look at this field."

Victoria had followed them to the warehouse in Livingston and watched as everybody got out and went inside, leaving Dakota and the bodyguard in the limo. She had parked the Winnebago up the street, then checked on Roger, who whimpered when she touched his hind end. "Sorry, honey, but it's not bleeding, so that's good." Then she moved to the back of the motor home and got the spandex dress that she had worn at the jewelry store out of the small wardrobe closet. She grabbed the plastic heels and started to change.

She knew she would have to find a way to disable the gorilla standing guard if she intended to rescue Dakota. The man was huge, and she was afraid that unless she distracted him, she could never control the situation. She decided that the sexy dress might give her some added advantage. She had been remembering a Trenton street villain she'd prosecuted several years ago. He was a 120-pound creep who was actually a collection agent for a loan shark. He had put hundreds of slow-pays in the hospital using a simple trick. He would wear leather gloves, and inside the palm of his right glove, he would hide a flat, curved, heavy metal sap. He would disable his victims with one slap to the side of the head. Her E.N.T./M.D. expert witness had testified that a sharp hard blow to the ear, even by a 120-pound man, could easily explode the capillaries in the inner ear, causing the victim to lose all of his equilibrium.

Victoria searched the motor home and finally found a white golfing glove in one of the drawers. She slipped it on her right hand. It was loose but it sort of fit. She kept looking in the drawers for some tool Beano might use for roofing scams or to make the wheelchair dice brackets. She found a toolbox in the outside storage compartment. Inside was a small metal rasp for filing wood. It was about four inches long and one inch wide, and it weighed almost two pounds. She shoved it down into the glove. The metal file stuck out too far, but maybe, with the purse over her arm, the huge bodyguard wouldn't notice. She hoped he wouldn't be near the car, and that she wouldn't have to use it. She'd been a state junior tennis champion and her forehand was awesome, but she'd never actually hit anybody before. Her Prosecutor's brain instructed her that this would be a felonious assault and battery. Then she remembered the troubling sound of Dakota's voice and pushed all those thoughts away, grabbed her purse, and moved out of the Winnebago. She hurried up the street until she got to the fence that bordered the warehouse. She could see that the bodyguard had left the front door of the limo open for air and that his big leg was dangling out, his foot tapping on the pavement as he listened to country music radio. Tanya Tucker was singing about a lost love.

"Hey!" she called out to him.

In a second Keith stuck his head out and saw Victoria standing there, looking through the gate. "Hi," he said, getting out of the car and moving over to her, smiling.

"My car broke down. I need a phone… Can I use the one in your limo?" she asked. "I'll pay for the call."

Keith eyed her platform heels, the micro-mini exposing her sexy legs. He grinned and moved closer.

"You're too cute to be out here walkin' around alone," he leered, turning on his NFL groupie-catcher smile. Keith was feeling horny; just being close to Dakota had got his juices flowing, but he knew if he touched her before Tommy said okay, he would end up dead. This girl was a whole other story.

"Gate's over here, come on, I'll let you in," he said.

She followed him along the fence until they got to the gate, and he let her in. "'Course, I can't really let you use the phone in the limo," he leered, "but that wasn't what you had in mind anyway, was it?"

"Yes," she insisted, "my car broke down." She was sizing him up. He was huge, six-four at least, and over 250. She wondered if the little Trenton street villain had ever used his glove sap on a mountain of gristle like the one towering over her.

"How 'bout we have some fun?" he said, grabbing her and holding her shoulders with both hands.

"Slow down, honey," she said as he pawed at her. She was within striking distance now, as he fumbled to open the front of her dress. Almost without thinking, she swung her right hand, a powerful forehand winner. The two-pound rasp caught Keith Summerland smack on the left ear. He let out a howl, went backwards, and dropped to his knees. She stepped back in horror and for a brief moment watched as he held his head, moaning. Then she stepped around him and ran across the asphalt toward the limo, pausing on the way to kick off the damn platform shoes. Victoria reached out and opened the back door and peered in at Dakota. She looked horrible: A light film of sweat covered her swollen bruised face.

"Oh, my God," Victoria whispered, "what did they do to you? Can you walk?"

"Don't know," Dakota said. "Pull me out."

Victoria reached in, took Dakota's hand, and pulled her out of the car, then walked with an arm around her, steadying her as they left the lot. Dakota glanced over at Keith. He was struggling to get to his feet, dizzy and totally out of it. He didn't see them leave.

"Let's go," Victoria said, hurrying Dakota away and up the street to the Winnebago. "I never hit anybody before," Victoria added.

"Good… start…" Dakota mumbled. Once they got into the motor home, Victoria settled her on the sofa next to the wounded terrier. Dakota was looking at Victoria with new respect.

Twenty minutes later, Victoria found the small, one-story Livingston Hospital. The E.R. attendants took one look and got Dakota on a gurney, rushing her into Emergency while Victoria picked up Roger-the-Dodger and carried him gingerly inside. She filled out the admitting slip for Dakota, using her own mother's maiden name, Barker. Then she got a nurse to take a look at Roger.

"What happened to him?" the sympathetic woman asked. "He looks like he's been shot."

"I don't know. I found him outside her house. I think her boyfriend may have beaten her and shot the poor dog," Victoria lied, wishing she was as good as Beano at spur-of-the-moment bullshit.

"I'll get Dr. Cotton to take a look at him," she said.

Two hours later Dakota was rushed into Emergency Surgery. Her spleen had been leaking blood into her abdomen for at least twelve hours. Her blood count and blood pressure were so low, they were life threatening.

When the doctor came out after the surgery, he looked worried. "She lost a lot of blood. She went into cardiac arrest on the table from low BP. We removed her spleen, pumped her full of plasma. She's been stabilized, but… I don't know…"

"How long till you can tell?" Victoria asked.

"I let God sort out the close ones," the doctor said. "I've called the police. She was obviously beaten, so I'm going to need your statement. They're on their way."

"I'll be glad to talk to them," Victoria said, but she knew she had to get out of there before the police came. Once they started asking questions, they'd sense her complicity. She needed to get Roger, so she wandered the sterile linoleum corridors, asking for Dr. Cotton. She finally found a plain-faced young woman M.D. in a doctors' lounge, holding Roger-the-Dodger and talking softly to him. His entire back end was now bandaged in white adhesive.

"Is he your dog?" she said accusingly, as Victoria moved into the small room.

"No, my friend's dog."

"This dog was shot," the doctor said angrily. "A large caliber, from the look of it."

"Oh," Victoria said. She wanted to get the hell out of there, so she reached out and took Roger out of the doctor's arms.

"I shouldn't have sewn him up. I'm a doctor, not a veterinarian, but I love animals and I couldn't leave him like that. He needs a vet's prescription-some strong antibiotics for possible infection," she lectured. And then mercifully, her beeper went off. "Excuse me, don't leave," she said and moved out of the room.

As soon as she was gone, Victoria took Roger and carried him out of the small hospital and into the Winnebago. She pulled the motor home out of the parking lot just as a police black-and-white arrived. The old Victoria would have glanced away in fear, but the new emerging one waved confidently at the cops, then turned left and sped away into the night.