A lie is a lie is . . .

Michael Haskins

possibly a good story . . . listener beware

I left Houston on Easter Sunday, and friends from Texas, who now live in Key West, told me I'd never get out of the state before night. Well, I drove one thousand miles on Sunday and not only got out of Texas, but almost made it into Arizona.

I stopped in New Mexico so I could find my passport, after all, Arizona really only wants American citizens in the state. I headed west Monday morning and soon as I saw the sign indicating Arizona was a few miles away, I got nervous. Why? I couldn't find my passport!

At the border, a large crew cut, neck-less man in an ugly, form fitting brown uniform approached. His large holstered gun very noticeable. His nametag had Jim Lord, A.S.S. on it.

"Passport, please," he said and maybe smiled, but it was a thin, tight one if it was a smile.

I explained about being a citizen but without a passport.

"Identification, please," he almost smiled, again.

I gave him my Florida driver's license and he grunted, "Key West."

"Yes," I answered and tried not to look nervous.

"Any other form of identification with a photo?" he said sternly without even an attempted smile.

My next piece of ID was the Florida concealed weapons permit I earned after attending classes held by a SWAT member of the Monroe County Sheriff's office. I hand it to Lord.

He looked at the photo, looked at me, back at the photo, and grinned.

"Well," he said in a friendly tone, "they only give these to citizens, so you're okay to go." He handed my permit and license back to me. "Welcome to Arizona."

Thank you. I had bite my tongue and was afraid to ask what A.S.S. stood for, but now that we were friends . . .

"Do you have a weapon in the car?"

Was this going to get sticky? Arizona honors the Florida concealed weapons permit, so I was allowed to carry a weapons.

"Yes," I answered, getting nervous again.

He smiled. "You might be interested in our hunting permit," he said, the smile back and didn't ask to see the weapon. I guess if you've seen one, you've seen them all. "You can buy the permit and it allows you a limit of four."

"Four what?" I asked.

"Illegals," he smiled. "We had to put a limit on how many you can shoot," he explained with a smile. "We've got individual, limit of four, couples, limit of two, families, limit of one."

I thought he was kidding, then I got a feeling maybe I was wrong.

"What's a permit cost?"

"Which one?"

"Individual."

"One hundred, and it's good for the day."

"I'm just driving through," I said. "Hope to be at my sister's in California by night fall."

"Maybe on your way back," he suggested.

"I have a question for you."

"That's what I'm here for."

Why'd he need the gun for questions? I didn't ask. In stead, "How would I know an illegal from a citizen?"

"Oh, that's easy," he grinned broadly, "they ain't the same color as us."

"Aren't some people of color legal?"

"The permit allows for error," he said. "An honest mistake is an accident and accidents happen. But the easiest thing is to stick close to the border and anyone running north is probably an illegal."

"I'll have to remember that," I forced a smile. "What agency are you with?"

"We're members of a volunteer agency, Arizona Security Squad, we protect our borders."

"And you are doing a hell of a job," I said and drove off.

One of the many biographers of Ernest Hemingway was at a luncheon with men and women who knew the author. He brought up that in his research into Hemingway's life he found many conflicting facts. Most of the other guests laughed and that only added to the man's confusion.

Someone finally stepped forward and took the man aside.

The stranger explained that Hemingway made his living writing fiction, making up things and told the biographer that the trait carried over into his life as well. Writers, he said, make things up, and to assume anything a writer told you was the truth was a wrong assumption.

I write mysteries about Key West and am on a road trip to sign my new book, Free Range Institution. I have signed in Houston, the LA Times Festival of Books, and three LA area bookstores. I am as guilty as Hemingway. I will try a story idea out by talking to friends who may think it's the truth. I write mystery fiction, maybe I talk it to.

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