Maurice was in the alley, leaning against a wall while a skinny eighteen-year-old German girl made her dinner money. He had come to the conclusion that this was the best way to get his ashes hauled, at least in Germany. The bar girls inside all seemed too comfortable, too secure. Like they were the ones in charge and could turn you down if they felt like it. The girls out on the street suited Maurice's mood better. She finished up and he paid her, then he slid down the wall to sit for a while. His orders had come in—he’d be shipping out of Antwerp in two weeks. Home by Chanukkah. What to do next? He'd never really thought about it. He didn't want to go back to the dry-cleaning shop in Chicago; he knew that much. What he really wanted to do was keep on killing Nazis. Voices. Down at the other end of the alley, two men had come out of the side door of the Metropole. Maurice ignored them. Then he heard a shot.
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