Cold Tuscan Stone by David P Wagner

looking for something more upscale?
    Rick listened, nodding at the appropriate moments, while he studied the man. He wondered how his uncle the policeman would have sized up Landi, and what characteristics would have made an impression, positive or negative. The exterior was not important, you couldn’t deduce anything about the man by his looks, since he didn’t appear any different from hundreds of people that Rick had met in Italy, all of them honest people. Same with Landi’s smoking. The habit was not illegal, though the way the government was moving these days, it soon could be. Landi behaved as expected of a businessman in this situation: ingratiating, with frequent glances to check Rick’s reactions. The man wanted the sale, and this could be a big one for him. One would conclude that the shop was his main business and only business, not a front for an illegal operation which brought in the big money. After about twenty minutes Rick said that he had really taken too much of Signor Landi’s precious time, perhaps he could return another day. Better not to appear too eager.
    â€œBut of course, Signor Montoya, you may return whenever you wish. I think it would also be of interest to you if—ah, Orlando, you have arrived at the perfect time.”
    Rick turned to see a small man peeling off his leather gloves as he entered the store. He wore a camel hair overcoat that extended below his knees and his neck was protected by a long red scarf. Stuffing his gloves in his pockets, he pulled off a wool cap to reveal a mostly bald head. Did the man fear losing most of his body’s heat through the top of the head? One thing for sure: this man disliked cold weather. Landi introduced him to Rick as Orlando Canopo, his assistant and the manager of the workshop that produced much of the store’s stock. Beaming, he told Canopo of Rick’s reason for the trip to Volterra, then turned back to his visitor.
    â€œHe is quite an artisan himself, Signor Montoya, but Canopo was meant for better things than just carving alabaster.”
    Canopo glanced at his boss with a pleased look on his face.
    â€œI was just about to suggest to our visitor, Orlando, that he visit our workshop. If he sees the excellent craftsmen working there he will appreciate the quality of our products even more.” Landi turned to Rick. “If you have time now, I’m sure Orlando would be glad to accompany you.”
    Rick glanced at a clock on the wall as the two men waited for his reply. Like almost everything else in the store, it was made of alabaster, but with bronze numbers and hands.
    â€œI have an appointment at six, at…nearby. Would there be time?”
    â€œI think there would,” answered Canopo in a deeper voice than Rick expected, even given the man’s somewhat diminutive size, “but if you run late, you can return when it would be convenient. It’s only a few blocks from here.” There was a slight accent that was not Tuscan. Somewhere in the south.
    The store owner grinned, shifted his eyes between the two men and rubbed his hands together as if he were about to sit down to a steaming bowl of pasta. “Excellent, now you won’t have to take off your coat, Orlando.” There was a private joke here that would not be shared. Landi shook hands with Rick. “I look forward to seeing you again, Signor Montoya. Tomorrow?”
    â€œIt has been my pleasure, Signor Landi.” He wondered how much nicotine smell had passed to his fingers. “Yes, tomorrow. A domani .”
    Landi watched the two men leave the store and then pulled Rick’s card from his jacket pocket, studying it carefully. He ran his fingers over the paper, as if testing its fiber content, before placing it in a small drawer next to the cash register. The girl, who had been standing silently in a corner of the shop, watched her boss with an expressionless face. He glanced at her, walked to the back of