Only two types of people in this world, the old man says. The greenpinkblue glow of a beer-on-tap sign hangin’ on the brick wall forms a halo over his baldin’ head. He’s holdin’ the same bottle of Sam Adams he’s been sippin’ at the past fifty-six minutes. I’m at the Green Dragon on Union and Marshall, it’s ten to midnight, and I’m sittin’ at the far corner of the bar in a swirl of cigarette smoke starin’ at cracks in the black stained surface, and for the past fifty-six minutes I’ve been hidin’ quick glances between the cracks and old man. He’s sittin’ in a black J. Press and sportin’ a pair of shiny Mint Simmons. In my mind I’m seein’ young Longinus Lechers marchin’ through the black doors like he did in my old man’s J ...