The Heart is a Lonely Hunter

Mac sat twenty feet off, nursing a lukewarm coffee and the kind of fatigue that crawls up a man’s bones and sets up shop. Every mug in the joint had their eyes glued to the woman in yellow. Mac wasn’t fooled. The real trouble sat on the right side of her—two mugs with shoulders like stolen refrigerators and brains to match. He watched them. Maybe he watched her too. Hard to tell in a place where the smoke did most of the thinking.

His feet throbbed like they were sending up flares. Hours of pounding the sidewalks in a city that chewed up shoe leather and spit out men. Flatfoot, gumshoe, peeper—he’d been called worse. Tonight he earned every name. He wasn’t minding his own business; he was prying into everyone else’s. Dragging secrets out of shadows, hauling lies into daylight. A hundred bucks bought a lot of ugly truth.

His gaze drifted back to her. She caught him looking and gave him a smile—small, soft, the kind that could make a man forget the world was a sewer. Mac gave her one back, though his felt borrowed. For a second he wondered what it’d be like coming home to a woman like that—apron on, sauce simmering, her eyes lighting up when he walked through the door. Fool’s thoughts. But she looked like she’d be good at anything she put her hands to. And she was easy on the eyes.

The guy beside her yanked her arm and muttered something. She shot Mac one last look, grabbed her purse, and slipped out into the night. The two mugs slapped bills on the counter and followed. Mac rose and followed them.

Outside, he called out. “Boys, where you going?”

They spun. “Who the hell are you?”

“Just a nobody. But I need a word about Krammer.”

The rear man’s hand dipped for his rod. Mac’s hand was quicker. “Bad move, kid. Put it on the ground. Hands up. Both of you. Back it up.”

He tucked the pistol into his waistband, frisked the second man, and herded them into the alley. “I’ve been chasing you two for two days. You shouldn’t have made it so damn hard. I’m tired, and I’m pissed.”

“You a cop?”

Mac stared at them with tired eyes.

“We don’t know,” the other said. “We’re looking for the bastard same as you.”

“Then why tail the girl in yellow?”

“She knows Krammer. Who are you?”

Mac stepped in close to the one who’d pulled the gun and dropped him with a punch that echoed off the brick. “Don’t draw on me again. I’ll put you in the ground. Now beat it. Daddy’ll handle the woman in yellow.”

The conscious one glared. “How about the pistol, chum?”

Mac popped the rounds, pocketed them, and tossed the empty piece back. “Scram before I change my mind.”

He crossed the street toward his car. She stepped out of the shadows like a secret deciding to speak.

“Thank you,” she said.

“I didn’t do it for you. Those boys had information I needed. I got it.”

“One last favor,” she said. “Walk me home? In case they come back?”

“Do you have bourbon?”

She smiled—slow, knowing. “I guess you’ve earned one drink.”

Mac felt it then—that old ache in the chest. The kind a lonely hunter gets when the night suddenly feels less empty.

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