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e tugged the brim of his felt fedora until the arcing line of shadow depended onto the bridge of his nose. Then he pulled on a trenchcoat, the uniform of his trade. He exited. The angles of sunlight coruscated across the Berlin rooftops as the sharp, box-shaped outline of Marius Eichert bled into the early morning crowd and disappeared toward the rusty U-Bahn.
Across the street, little more than a fish-eye reflection in a brash American motorcycle, Johann Wüsteschon watched Eichert vanish, touched the gun-shaped bulge in his overcoat pocket, and smiled a crooked smile. “Auf Wiedersehen, Marius,” he said.
by Daniel Le Ray
Dr. Hurley's Snake-Oil Cure 
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