Cold Tuscan Stone David Wagner (acx book reading .txt) 📖

agreement before following their visitor up the stairs. At the top, a metal door creaked open. The three stepped outside into a fog that almost obscured the building across the narrow alley. The short man pulled out a key and noisily closed the deadbolt on the door before turning to the client. Thirty meters away, where the alley began, cars crept slowly through the fog, their lights on but dimmed. The Milanese knew fog well and treated it with respect. The three walked in silence out to the street where they stopped.

“I will be in contact by the end of the week. I know you need an answer.”

The two dealers smiled stiffly and nodded. No handshake was offered, so the buyer hurried off toward the center of town while a tram rumbled past him on its tracks, making the sidewalk vibrate under his feet. They watched him until one tapped the other on the arm and jerked his head back toward the passage. By the time the tram was passing the alley, the key was back in its metal door.

Chapter Two

It just doesn’t seem possible.

Rick Montoya settled back into the soft back of the chair, stretched his long legs so that his tooled leather boots were visible, and faced the official sitting behind the heavy wooden desk. The office had to be one of the choice rooms in the ministry, its windows overlooking the orange tiled roofs of central Rome. In the distance the large tricolor flag of Italy fluttered slowly over the presidential palace, silhouetted by one of the seven hills. If this were a hotel, the view alone would make the room worth hundreds of Euros a night, with or without breakfast. The man behind the desk spoke into the phone as he smiled at Rick.

“Two coffees please, Marta.”

Was this really Beppo Rinaldi? Rick had run into Beppo on the Via del Corso just after moving to Rome six month earlier, but they hadn’t much time to talk. The two exchanged business cards and promised to meet and relive their high school days on the basketball team. When Beppo called a few days ago, Rick had all but forgotten the encounter.

Rick, along with everyone else in their class at the American Overseas School of Rome, always assumed that Beppo Rinaldi would go into the family business. Beppo was a Roman, after all, one of a minority in the school where most students either had one American parent or were the kids of diplomats working at the foreign embassies. With his American foreign service father and a Roman mother, Rick fell into both categories. Beppo, however, was the scion of rich local parents who thought fluent English and an American high school education would serve their son well in international business.

But Beppo had surprised Rick by saying that instead of joining his father’s company, he was working at the Ministry of Culture. That career shift was startling enough, but now what fully amazed Rick was the section of the ministry where his friend sat. Beppo, the goofy kid whose claim to fame in school was a lucky winning shot in a basketball game, was now investigating stolen antiquities. Rick shook his head and returned the smile as Beppo put down the phone.

“Beppo, I can’t believe you’re working here. I—”

“You thought I’d be working for my father? I thought I would too, but when I started my university studies I got interested in art history. Loved it. One thing led to another, and before I knew it here I was. Not bad, huh?” He glanced up at the painted ceiling of the room. The palazzo had once housed a religious school, and a well-funded one at that. The Jesuits had spared no expense on the decoration of this part of the building, but Rick suspected the classrooms were more spartan. “And your translation business, Rick, I trust it is prospering?”

The question prompted Rick to straighten his tie. Lunch with an Italian meant coat and tie, and in his short time back in the city Rick had spent much of his earnings, perhaps too much, on an Italian wardrobe. So while not dressed as well as Beppo, he didn’t look like an American tourist. Only his cowboy boots gave a hint of his New Mexico roots, but he told his Roman friends that he wore them for their comfort. Which was just what he’d told his drinking buddies in Albuquerque when they’d noticed his Bruno Magli loafers. Today he’d almost put on a pair of light brown wing tips to go with charcoal gray slacks and a blue blazer, all three recent acquisitions, but instead convinced himself that the well-shined boots worked just fine. A dark blue shirt and solid red tie completed the wardrobe. You can never go wrong, his father always told him, with a solid red tie.

“Thankfully, yes, Beppo, the translating business is doing well. It’s still just me and my computer, but I may have to hire a secretary soon and even get a real office instead of working out of my apartment.” He scanned the room while shaking his head in disbelief. “It won’t be as sumptuous as this, of course. So, where do you want to eat?”

Beppo leaned forward, elbows on the desk. He folded his hands under his chin, showing more forehead between eyes and hairline than Rick remembered from school days. They say that nobody changes much from high school, but Rick was starting to notice some differences beyond the tailored suit and the receding hair. Beppo’s expression could be serious.

“Rick, before we go to lunch to talk about the good old days at AOSR, there’s something I want to discuss with you. Something to do with my work. I think you could be of considerable help, if you accept my proposition.”

Just as I suspected, Rick thought, there had to be something more than a reunion afoot. Rick had split his life between Italy and New Mexico, so he’d spent enough time