Cold Tuscan Stone by David P Wagner Page A

the shop, and disappeared through the door. She stood for a few moments before returning to her place among the jewelry.
    Outside, Rick and Canopo walked down the street, now filled with afternoon shoppers. A light wind brushed their faces.
    â€œPerhaps something to warm us up, Signor Montoya? The workshop can get quite drafty.”
    â€œThat sounds like an excellent idea. It is getting chilly.”
    â€œI won’t have to put my gloves back on just yet.”
    As they entered the bar, conversation stayed on the weather. Canopo was born in Sicily, and though he’d been living in Volterra for fifteen years, he still was not used to the cold winters of Tuscany. He asked Rick if he had spent any time in Sicily, and looked at the American in sadness when the reply was negative. Their espressos arrived with a pair of clinks as they were set onto saucers, and the barman splashed a shot of grappa into Canopo’s cup without asking. Rick declined the liquor and stirred a spoonful of sugar into his coffee. Canopo drained his in one gulp before patting a paper napkin to his lips.
    â€œSo, Signor Montoya, you are interested in the art of the land of the Etruscans.”
    Rick sipped his espresso and thought that it was almost as if Canopo knew of his real mission in Volterra. Perhaps this would be the man to field his hints when the time came, when he had established some trust and his credentials as a real buyer were accepted. Or with both Canopo and Landi.
    â€œThe pieces I saw in the shop were very beautiful. Americans are always impressed by Italian design and workmanship, but the Etruscan angle adds an additional fascination to the work.”
    â€œAnd an additional profit to be made?” The cognac seemed to have warmed up Canopo in more ways than one.
    â€œI suppose you could say that,” Rick answered.
    â€œYou have been to Volterra before, I trust? From your fluent Italian I assume you have been to most parts of the country. Except Sicily, of course.” The last sentence was said with either regret or reproach, Rick was not sure which.
    â€œNo, this is my first visit.”
    â€œAh,” was Canopo’s simple reaction. “In many ways it is not very different from my native island. There are good people and bad people. The Tuscans claim to be above all the rest of us, but in truth they have the same vices as everyone else in Italy, those vices are simply dressed in more elegant attire.” He had been staring at his empty cup and now looked at Rick. “You have a rare gift, Signor Montoya, of getting people to talk freely.”
    â€œThis is the first time I’ve been accused of that, Signor Canopo.”
    Canopo narrowed his eyes as he looked at Rick’s face. “But it’s true, I sense such things.” The smile returned. “I also sense that you won’t take my comments the wrong way. I am very happy here, I have a wonderful family and Signor Landi has treated me well. All this despite the wretched cold of this city.” He glanced at his watch, as if to remind them both of Rick’s other appointment. As he did, Rick pulled back his coat to reach into his pants pocket.
    â€œDon’t take out your money, Signor Montoya; it is of no value here.”
    Rick thanked him for the coffee as they walked through the glass doors. They stepped into the street and Canopo gestured to the right with his hand.
    â€œThe shop is in this direction, I think you will—”
    Rick had been looking down the street where Canopo was pointing, but now glanced at the man’s face. The smile had gone and what was remained was either annoyance or concern.
    â€œPlease excuse me for just a moment.” Canopo’s voice sounded a bit higher than it had inside. Without waiting for a reply he left Rick standing and strode quickly across the street toward a shoe store. Like all such establishments in Italy, the shoes were displayed along a glass corridor which