If you walk down the wrong street in the wrong city, and take a turn down the right alley, you will find a bar. The place has no sign above the door; no blinking neon light to advertise it or announce its location to the world. You have to know that it's there to even find it, and whatever name it once had is long forgotten. These days, it's just called "Reds".Inside the smoky main room, the customers sit in sullen silence, glaring at newcomers before returning to nursing their drinks. Only Darnell, the bartender, holds eye-contact with new arrivals. He's been here longer than anyone, and I can see a look in his eyes that says he has seen it all.
I tell him I'm a journalist looking for stories, and his attitude changes. "You've come to the right place," he says with a smile.
