Cold Tuscan Stone by David Wagner (ebook reader for pc and android TXT) 📗

a cover of black clouds had started closing off the last few rays of sunlight, though it was not quite dark enough to cause the street lights to go on. It was no surprise that no one was in sight. Anybody with a brain would be inside at this time of day, likely with a warm drink. The thought of another shot of grappa made him smile, but his mood sank to match the temperature when he saw the expression on the face of the large man standing by the wall.

“I came as quickly as I could.” Canopo joined the tall, silent figure. He looked up at the man’s face, waiting for him to speak.

The man remained silent, gazing out over the ruins below, his slight frown showing concern or distraction. A long leather coat was his only concession to the cold wind that raced along the street. Canopo decided that sheer size must keep the man from noticing the temperature, like a bear hunkered down in a frozen forest. He wore no hat. His gloveless hands were placed on the edge of the wall as if he were about to make a speech to an invisible crowd gathered below. There was no offer of a handshake, or any other acknowledgement that a shivering Canopo now stood a few feet from him.

“Canopo,” he finally said. Was it a statement or a question? He continued after a pause. “Mio caro Canopo, we’ve had a problem. The police have discovered our storage shed and confiscated everything.” Canopo tried not to show fear, but he could not prevent taking a short breath. The man continued. “So we’ve lost most of our stock. This will set us back months….Come over here so I don’t have to raise my voice.”

Canopo scanned the empty street. “But there’s no one—”

“Come here.”

Canopo found himself standing next to the man, both of them now blankly staring at the stones far below their eyes. There was still enough light to make out the structures laid out by the Romans, those remnants that had not been carted off over the centuries. A wide arc of stone seats lay between them and a tower of Corinthian columns, all that was left of the theater’s stage. Only the outline of its semicircle was visible, cut into the side of the hill. Grass that grew among the stones was turning brown in the fall cold, matching leaves which had blown into small piles around the stage. Far off to the left a few cars were leaving a large parking area, one of several such spaces found outside the walls of what had always been and still was a pedestrian city. Canopo watched their red tail lights disappear around the distant edge of the wall.

“What are we to think?” The man continued to focus on the stones below.

“I don’t understand.” Canopo’s voice faltered.

“It seems very unlikely that the cops just stumbled on it, mio caro Canopo. And there were only a few of us who knew its location. We have no reason to suspect the other members of the organization, so it has come down to one of us.” He shifted his eyes from the stones to Canopo. “I know that I never told anyone about the shed.” He swung around, and his finger shot out to punch Canopo in the chest three times, one for each word. “That leaves you.”

“I never said anything to the police or anyone else, I swear.” Despite the wintry air, he could feel himself beginning to sweat. “Why would I do it? What would be in it for me?”

“Money? You should be doing pretty well. You get a regular salary from the store, you’re paid well for our little operation, and now it seems you’re on the police payroll as well. Whatever the reasons, it doesn’t matter now.” He lifted his head and glanced quickly up and down the street.

“What are you—” Canopo’s voice froze.

Abruptly the man reached down and seized Canopo under his arms. The strong hands pressed in, squeezing a groaning breath from Canopo’s lungs as he stared up in shock. An instant later he realized that his feet were no longer touching the stone pavement. He pulled his hands from his pockets as he felt himself being lifted above the top of the wall. Canopo’s fingers clawed at the face, trying to hold fast to something, anything, that could save him. Suddenly all he felt was the frozen air rushing past him. He was cursing the cold when he hit the stone.

***

“Did you see that, Herb?”

“What should I be seeing, Shirley, I’m opening the car?” The man in a Nike jacket glanced up and saw a strange look on his wife’s face. “What is it?”

“A man, at least I think it was a man, just fell from the top of the wall, way over there.”

He squinted through his glasses. “Are you sure? It’s pretty dark.”

“I’m not sure. No, I am sure. What else could it have been?”

“Somebody throwing a sack of garbage? It is Italy, you know. They throw garbage all over the place. Remember Naples last week? This isn’t Davenport.”

“Herb, nobody would be throwing garbage down on the Roman ruins.”

“I wouldn’t count on it.” He opened the passenger door of the rental car. “Come on, Shirley, I don’t want to be on these roads when it’s too dark. They’re dangerous enough with these Italian drivers.”

***

His walk through the quiet streets of the historic center surrounded Rick with the richness of Volterra’s culture. He regretted that Erica wasn’t with him now, explaining all the art and architecture, putting everything in context as only a good art history professor can. He rounded the corner and entered the city’s main square, deserted except for a few people scurrying across its stone pavement. A strong gust of wind swirled through the piazza like a New Mexico dust devil, causing Rick to pull up his collar and hurry toward the police station. After mounting some steps, he entered the building