“I work for the state,” I said, thinking I’d tell him I write occasionally for Arizona Highways. He laughed. “The state cuts no ice up here. We’re the Salt River Project.” I tried again. “I’m a fluviophile,” I explained. “You’re a what?” “A fluviophile. A lover of rivers.” “I’ll be damned! That’s a new one.” I played my last card. “I know Rod McMullin,” I said, naming the manager of the Salt River Project.

That depends on how long the sentence is. Believe it or not, there’s a canon of construction about provisos, and the test is anything but clear: …

All took the word, to the gay band they hied, The queen, besure, was close to Lanval's side, Sprightly she seem'd, and sportfully did toy, And caught his hand to dance, and led the general joy, Lanval alone was dull where all was gay, His thoughts were fixed on his lovely fay: Soon as he deftly might, he fled the throng; And her dear name nigh trembled on his tongue, When the fond queen, who well had trac'd his flight, Stepp'd forth, and cross'd his disappointed sight.

I began as a patrol officer, working the wagon, squad car, and three-wheelers until 1963, when I took the detective exam.