Assuming Names: a con artist's masquerade (Criminal Mischief Book 1) Read Free Page B

too,” I acknowledged.
    “But where are you from?”
    I said again, “I just came from Kenya.”
    Mike asked, “What country issued your passport?”
    I looked confused.
    “Your passport. You have a passport, don’t you?”
    I appeared to search my memory, but didn’t sound convinced, “I believe so.”
    “You need a passport to travel.”
    I nodded my head but said nothing.
    Mike was quiet for a moment, then he asked, “Have you seen your passport?”
    “Maybe. I don’t know.”
    “How do you travel then?”
    “Generally by plane.”
    Now Mike looked confused.
    I offered as though it would clarify something, “Sometimes by car. Once on a boat. And a couple times by rail. But mostly planes.”
    I didn’t know where this fiction was ultimately going, but I had a goal. I wanted to live in Dallas with the title of countess. The only problem was I had not yet learned how to create a legitimate, federally recognized identity, and as it was 1985, there was no readily available information on the topic. Uncertain how to acquire identification, I needed a compelling history to explain why I had none. Every question Mike asked allowed me to give the tale more detail, but so far, he had about as much of a clue as I did how the story was going to proceed.
    Mike said, “When you arrived in this country, you would have shown your passport to immigration.” And when I gave no indication this had happened, he prompted, “Do you remember giving your passport to immigration?”
    “No.”
    “You don’t remember?”
    “No.”
    “Why don’t you remember?”
    “When you say immigration, I don’t know what you mean.”
    Mike inhaled and the preacher struck out with, “How many countries have you been in?”
    “Thirty, maybe more.”
    Mike sat forward with consternation. It was a far higher number than he was expecting. “You would have gone through immigration at every international airport.”
    I looked interested to hear it.
    Mike tried to make it simple. “Who are the first officials you meet when you enter a country?”
    “Do you mean the military?”
    He leaned farther forward. “What is the first thing you normally do when you get off a plane?”
    “I give the valise to the person at the bottom of the stairs.”
    Mike went rigid and the preacher whispered slow and full of breath, “Oh … my … stars.”
    Mike asked, “What’s in the valise?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “Okay.” He paused to rearrange his thoughts. “ Then what do you do?”
    “Generally, I get into a car.”
    Suddenly it was clear to Mike. “You’ve been traveling by private plane.” He sat back thinking he was finally getting a handle on it. “But you’d still have to pass through immigration.” And when I kept my expression blank, he considered something else. “How big are the airports?”
    I looked quizzical.
    “How big? How many runways? How many buildings?”
    “Well, only one runway and there are seldom any buildings.”
    The preacher declared with astonishment, “Clandestine landing strips.”
     
    ~~~~~~
     
     
    Mike needed a moment away to organize his thoughts, and then, “When I return, we’re going to start all over again.”
    After Mike left the room, the preacher wanted to talk to me about my soul. “Are you a Christian?”
    I said with the same doe-eyed innocence I had been using from the start, “I have been.”
    He pulled back. “Have you been something else?”
    “A couple times I was Buddhist, once a Hindu, and twice a Jew, though mostly a Christian, if not agnostic.”
    He was aghast. He needed a moment, too, but there wasn’t a minute to spare if he was going to save me from that blasphemous list. “What are you now?”
    I smiled and granted, “While I am in your company, I will be a Christian.”
    He was breathless, dropping to his knees before me, already asking, “Will you pray with me?”
    “Why, yes, of course, if you like,” but I was pushing back into the couch in a bid for distance,