Pretty Lethal. Joe Schreiber

hoisted the steamer trunk by one of its straps, dragging it toward the balcony. ‘Lift. Now.’

      ‘What? Why?’

      She gestured over the balcony, down to the canal.

      ‘Oh, no. No way. No.’

      ‘We must get rid of the body before . . .’ She nodded at the door where the knocking and the shouting had fallen abruptly, ominously silent.

      ‘Forget it!’

      She pointed the pistol at me. ‘It was good to see you again, Perry.’

      ‘Wait, hold on. I’m not getting involved in this.’

      ‘Already you are involved.’

      Click. Safety off. Argument over. I gripped the leather strap and hoisted up my end of the trunk. As I lifted, I felt something inside do a slumping barrel roll over to my end, which got suddenly heavier, and we heaved it up onto the balcony, balancing it on the wrought-iron railing. For just a second I looked down, four stories, where the Grand Canal shimmered below in the darkness, jewels of light reflected from the hotels and buildings on the other side. Venice never looks lovelier than when you’re using it to dispose of a body.

      Then Gobi shoved the trunk over the edge and it fell.

      There was a long silence followed by a splash below just as the hotel door swung open behind us. When I looked back at Gobi, she was already climbing over the railing into the night.

      ‘What are you doing?’

      She let go of the railing and disappeared.