Memoir of a Grifter

Memoir of a Grifter

A story of graft, grift, greed, theft, corruption, fraud, embezzlement, infidelity, adultery, betrayal and murder as told by a morally-challenged accountant-turned-whistleblower. I met Truman Amboy on a tip from Guy Bublé, your esteemed editor. Guy hadn’t told me Truman would be expecting me, eager to tell his life story. They both thought it would be fun to surprise me. This wouldn’t be just another lead from your esteemed editor, one of many that may or may not uncover a compelling story. Guy told me that Truman had read our books, and because of that, he contacted your esteemed editor through Proctor University. The two had a brief phone conversation. Truman asked if we would publish his story. More like a bunch of stories, maybe a memoir. Maybe just ramblings of some old man looking for company. Guy told me Truman was in declining health, with some sort of wasting disease, living in Prineville, Oregon. he'd moved, voluntarily into one of those fancy, multi-stage assisted living places where old people go, or are sent, to die gradually, moving from floor to floor rather than just taking the next crisis on the chin and calling it good. Guy convinced me this old codger might have some great tales to tell, so I said I’d call and arrange to go pay him a visit. It was springtime, a beautiful time of year in the high desert of Central Oregon. I drove down to introduce myself. If it was a bust, at least I’d enjoy the road trip. Crooked River Senior Living looked like a big upscale apartment building. The front desk rang Truman, gave my name and said I was in the lobby. He said he’d be right down. As it turns out, the man who stepped out of the elevator and walked up to me wasn’t Truman Amboy. “Mr. Fletcher?” “Yes. Nice to meet you. Uh, Mr. … Amboy?” “Hah. I can see you recognize me. Guy told me you’d seen pictures of me, might not fall for my new identity.” “Jasper? … Jasper Pruitt?” Jasper smiled, gestured to be silent and whispered. “Yes, but call me Truman, at least when we’re around people. Everyone here calls me Tru. Witness Protection Program.” “Got it.” “Let’s go up to my suite. Fourth floor, has the best views. That’s where they start us out. It’s a nice little apartment. Guy says you like strong coffee, fine Kentucky bourbon and mild hash. Got all three upstairs and some gummies.” “You’re kidding.” “No. This is Oregon. It’s been good for me.” “Lead the way, Tru.” This would be the first of many meetings where Jasper Pruitt, Alias Truman Amboy, would lay out his memoir. We embarked on a six-month project in which Jasper reflected on his life through these stories. He was down on the third floor when we had our last visit. Your esteemed editor and I aren’t totally certain about the exact factual truth of everything Jasper told us, but we’re inclined to believe the essence of his recollections. He passed away shortly after we wrapped up his last chapter, just before his move to a room on second floor, where Crooked River Senior Living residents go to die. Jasper was pleased with our work and made me promise to use his real name and everyone else’s real name when we publish, with one exception. That was the original plan and he wanted to make sure we stuck to it. Enjoy. G.W.F