The Dirty Secret by Brent Wolfingbarger Read Free Book Online Page A

maximized its profits and improved its chances to endure the bust periods that scared the bejeezus out of jittery, conservative bankers.
    Mentally reaching the presentation’s midpoint, Jack recalled the vivid, full-color pie charts and bar graphs he had generated from stacks of MR’s production records and sales invoices. Those graphics showed that over the past five years, MR had significantly increased both the oil and gas it was extracting from its leaseholds as well as its profit margin.
    Jack stared at himself in the rearview mirror. If only that told the whole story. If that were the case, I would sleep like a baby. Instead, I have bags under my eyes and an Elavil prescription that needs refilled.
    Driving between Fairmont and Morgantown, Jack was struck by the barren scenery around him. The rolling hills of north central West Virginia – so lush and green in the summer and painted in fiery reds, deep oranges and golden yellows in the fall – were brown and dead-looking today. As they would remain, Jack knew, until the leaves began to return in the middle of April. Despite winning yet another election last week, Jack felt the aching emptiness of those hills perfectly reflected the despair and loneliness weighing him down.
    Jack suddenly realized he had to shake this foul mood, quickly. In only minutes, he would be shaking hands with the banker and he needed his “A” game. He closed his eyes and bent his head sideways like he was trying to touch his ear to his shoulder. First to the right, then to the left, he felt the taut muscles in his neck slowly begin to unknot.
    Jack turned on the radio and a few haunting lyrics from Doug Stone’s old song, “I’d Be Better Off (In A Pine Box)” poured out of the speakers. Scowling, he jammed his thumb against the tuning button, hoping to find something less likely to make him slit his wrists.
    Moments later, the melodic strumming of a single electric guitar began to fill his ears and he pulled his finger away from the stereo controls. Exhaling deeply, he leaned his head back against the seat and closed his eyes as the lead vocalist of the ‘80s hair metal band, Tesla, crooned the first few lines from Gettin’ Better .
    The guitarist kicked his efforts up a notch and the rest of the band followed suit. Jack tapped his left hand on the steering wheel in time with the music and felt his outlook on life improve. As the song played on, he became more and more animated, banging his head slightly and even balling his right hand into a fist at one point he found particularly uplifting.
    By song’s end, he was rolling into the bank’s parking lot without a trace of the gloom and doom that had earlier gripped him. Turning the volume down, he shut off the engine and grabbed his laptop case after making a mental note to download that old Tesla album soon.
    It might come in handy the next time I feel like throttling Tabatha , he privately quipped, cracking a wry smile as he strolled toward the bank.
    A stunning woman in her early thirties with long wavy hair the color of cornsilk sat behind a semi-circular stainless steel desk. “Hello,” she said with a smile. “How may I help you?” Her words flowed smoothly, sounding melodious, educated, accommodating and sultry.
    Jack returned the smile. “I have an appointment with Marty Tharp at one.”
    The receptionist glanced down at her calendar. “Mr. McCallen?”
    “You’re looking at him.” From years spent making campaign speeches and shaking hands with farmers in the oil patch, Jack felt his comfort level rising as he subconsciously switched into glad-handing mode.
    The woman nodded. “Have a seat, and I’ll let Mr. Tharp know you are here.” She motioned toward a row of burgundy leather office chairs aligned along a glass wall to her right. Jack silently dipped his head in acknowledgment and took a seat.
    Magazines half-covered the cherry end table beside his chair. Jack pawed through them before selecting a