Danny Ballard

I threw some clothes on, locked up and took the elevator down, quickly walking in the direction opposite Pete's to my stand-by bar, the place that I sometimes go just to get buzzed. It is called The Lion's Heart, about six long blocks away as the crow flies. It doesn't have great food, but not bad either. There isn't much lighting, but the beer is always plentiful and fresh. 'I like to walk, gets the blood pumping. I'll take my shortcuts, cutting through the parking lots and alley ways, turn the six long blocks into about three.' When I got there I saw the large, two-sided oval shaped light green porcelian sign with white letters bracketed just above the door on the brick outside, well out of anyone's reach, and the yellow bodied, orange maned namesake lion with its black eyes, red teeth and claws, looking as if ready to pounce. I went in, saw the usual number of customers. Jack behind the counter as always sees me come in and says, "hey stranger, long time no see! Where you been hidin'?" "Been kind of busy," I said, grabbing my usual stool. The time - 10:48 a.m. "Beer?," he asked. "If you twist my arm real good, yeah," I said. I took a quick look-see, kinda glancing around at the others. Jack is older than me, and having never asked I just assumed him to be about sixty or so. He likes to play to the part of the bartender from a by-gone age; long white sleeves rolled up, sporting a fairly large handle-barred mustache, thinning red hair smoothed back, belly disguised somewhat by an old green apron - a white somewhat fading shamrock proudly displayed about chest level. When he got me my beer I said, "wait one," and tipped it, soon handed the empty back saying, "hit me!" "Your wish is my command," he laughed, refilling it. "So what ya been up to?"