Pasta Imperfect - By Maddy Hunter Page 0,41

arm and ushered him toward the adjoining stall. "How about a nice silk scarf?"

Fred's chest collapsed with disappointment. "But I wanted something made of leather. Never mind. I'll look someplace else."

"Are you all by yourself?" I made a visual scan, looking for other tour members.

"What's wrong with that? I do lots of things by myself. I don't need to be part of an entourage. I like my own company. Besides" -- he straightened the tilt of his hat and assumed a stoic look -- "no one invited me to join them."

I flinched at the hurt in his voice.

"Amanda and Brandy Ann hinted that we could hang out today, but they left without me this morning. Women shouldn't do that. They shouldn't say one thing, then do something else."

"I bet you anything they simply forgot," I said in a placating voice. "You know what women are like when they have serious shopping to do. Pouf! Everything goes out of their heads."

He regarded me in silence, jaw stiff, eyes unwavering.

Yup. This was going well. "Tell you what, Fred, you're welcome to hang out with me. I could help you find something for your mom and --"

"I don't want to spoil your afternoon. I'll be okay. Maybe I'll run into Keely. No one likes her either. Say, have you seen any pet stores around here? I want to find something to bring back to my cats."

"Like a little leather collar? That would be so cute! Maybe in a variety of rainbow colors. How many cats do you have?"

His face cracked with a smile as bright as a quarter moon. "Twenty-three."

Click clack click clack click clack. "Emily! You've gotta see this!" Jackie whipped off a quick, "Hi," to Fred before snagging my arm and leading me several stalls down to a green - and - white - striped tent hung with leather vests, belts, neckties, and some of the most adorable leather jackets I'd ever seen. "Oooh," I said, my gaze leaping from color to color. Root beer. Bubblegum. Tangerine. Grape. "How much?" I asked, pointing to a waist-length zippered number in bright raspberry.

The middle-aged salesclerk was tall and rangy with a cigarette dangling from his lips. His eyes were ink black. His skin as leathery as the jackets he sold. "Six hundred thousand lire."

Drop three zeros. Divide by two. "Three hundred American dollars?" I winced. It was cheaper than the twenty-five-hundred-dollar coat I'd seen earlier, but it still wasn't the bargain I wanted. "I'll have to think about it."

The clerk whipped it off its hanger so I could see it up close and personal. "Six hundred thousand lire, but for you" -- he removed his cigarette and blew a mouthful of smoke in the air -- "five hundred thousand lire."

"Four hundred thousand," said Jackie.

"No, no!" the man complained. "Two hundred American dollar? You ask me to give it away." He plugged his cigarette back into his mouth. "Two hundred and fifty American dollar."

"Too high," Jackie argued. "There's a man in a stall farther down who'll sell us the same thing for two hundred. Come on, Emily."

Oh, I got it. We were dickering! My only other dickering experience had been with my nephews over how much Nintendo time they'd earn if they refrained from lacing the dog's food with gummi worms.

"What man?" The clerk threw a contemptuous look down the street. "Antonio? Testa di merda! You no listen him. He a snake. His jackets" -- he made a spitting motion -- "no good. His leather...bad. You no do business with Antonio. You do business with Vincenzo!" He slapped himself on the chest. "All right. I sell you for four hundred thousand lire. What size you need, signorina?" He looked me up and down. "Small size."

Wow. Two hundred dollars. I could actually afford that, but I wondered..."A hundred and fifty dollars," I demanded.

"One-ninety."

"One-sixty."

"One hundred seventy American dollar. You take that or go buy from Tony the Snake."

"One-sixty-five," I countered.

"Sold," he said, looking proud to have cheated his reptilian competitor out of a sale. "You want this color, I no have in small, but I take you to my shop. Many more choices. Angelo!" Vincenzo yelled, summoning a younger man from the back of the tent. He spouted some instructions at the teenager in rapid Italian, then led Jackie and me through a narrow maze of booths onto a street called the Via Canto di Nelli and a shop named Giorgio.

Inside, the smell of leather hit me in the face, which wasn't surprising considering the place