I won’t lie to you. I used to use a fake name in bars.

“McGronio,” I’d croon to the nearly pretty young lady sitting across the table. “The name’s John McGronio.” And I’d squint through the haze of cigarette smoke all brooding and mysterious.

Or so I fancied.

The truth of the matter is, I wasn’t lying to evade possible future complications. Not for the most part, anyway. I was making up this brilliant moniker because it seemed the thing to do when the lights were low, the music was just loud enough and the semi-comely lass appeared as drunk as I.

Wink wink, people. Lying in bars is as much a cliché as the bad pickup lines that typically accompany the prevarication.

By the way, was your father a thief? But never mind.

I think the fundamental reaction that causes a person to lie to a potential date is the same one that impels him to withhold his name from a reporter. It just seems the thing to do. You see it in the motion pictures all the time.

“That’s great stuff,” snarls the wolfish reporter, drool gleaming from incisors. “Now if you’ll just give me your name, I’ll get this to press.”

“No name,” chirps the well-groomed, milky-clean subject of the interview. “I wish to remain anonymous.”

I make the same mistake all the time. Whether at the scene of a hideous murder, a roaring fire or a dainty garden party, I ask the questions before getting the name. I fill my notebook with quotes so bold, they want to fly off the page and run around the block.

I saw flames devour the building and then the world went black. I saw a man pull a rifle from his long, dark coat and start shooting like a child at a carnival game. I planted these begonias late in the spring, but look how they have thrived.

And then, already spending my Pulitzer money, the source of these great zingers declines to provide a name.

Why? I ask you. Why?

There is an important distinction to make here. A good portion of the information I glean about any particular case comes from people whose names will never appear in print. They simply tell me what they know and then vanish into smoke, leaving it to me to run down those tips and confirm them.

It’s when a stranger comes along with colorful descriptors about a fresh event that names are required. Misery awaits the reporter who files a story with a quote from an unnamed source. Sweater vest-wearing editors frown their half-moon frowns and for good reason. The punch of a quote loses much of its power when followed by “according to a source who wished to remain anonymous.” They can hear newspaper readers groaning over their omelets and sputtering to their spouses: “Now, how do I know the reporter isn’t making that source up?”

Both weenie editor and the omelet eater are exactly right. A person who is willing to make a statement to a journalist ought to be willing to back that statement up with his or her identity. But some absolutely will not, no matter how much you plead with them, cry or hold your breath.

If a woman watches a Mafia assassination unfold, I absolutely understand why she does not want to be listed in the paper as a witness. If a man gives you a wicked tip about his corrupt, high-ranking employer, I appreciate the tip and perfectly acknowledge his reluctance to be named as a rat.

You just don’t see instances like those too often around here. More likely, the man who described the knifing outside the bar wasn’t supposed to be at the bar because he is on probation. The woman who provides delicious descriptions of a nightclub brawl won’t give her name because her husband is at work and … well, she’s supposed to be home with the kiddies.

Which is fine. People have personal lives that need protecting, but I still want the information they can provide me. I will take nameless tips over big, fat squat any day.

It’s the people who refuse out of baseless unease that cause me to weep. These are the same people who will never, under any circumstances, go swimming within nine hours of eating because their mommas warned them against such belly-dooming habits. They won’t open umbrellas indoors because that would certainly spell the end. They won’t provide their names to friendly, warm-hearted reporters even after having a lengthy discussion with them.

It breaks your heart, doesn’t it? Sure, it does. Because we are not the Washington Post, where every source is a 6-foot rat in a custom-tailored suit. We are a small community where people are free to say things without the wrath of the Pentagon raining down like napalm.

Or something.

All I’m saying is: Talk to me, people. Talk to me and then give me the correct spelling of your name so your lively quotes will retain their oomph. Tell me what you know and who you are and spare us all from the sweater vest and omelet crowds.

Or at least lay a bad pickup line on me, big fella. But not the “Are you a thief” one. Even John McGronio stopped using that back in the early ’90s.

Wink, wink.

Mark LaFlamme is the Sun Journal crime reporter. That’s his story and he’s sticking to it.