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The proprietor of Nardi's was not the fastest man in the world. In fact, after a long argument in Italian with the man at the front of the line, he disappeared intothe back with a huff. The sounds of banging promptly came from the back room.
    Sam looked at his watch. "Is he fixing something in there?"
    Donna, who was not facing Sam, shrugged her shoulders. "Maybe. He said something about it needing a new heating element in Italian before he went back there."
    "You speak Italian?" Sam asked, looking down, wondering what the girl in front of him looked like,hoping she was as pretty as her voice, hoping she would turn around.
    Donna Beck turned, smiling. Sam tried not to show his disappointment because she was not particularly pretty. She had dark, curly hair, a somewhat pudgy nose, a shiny forehead, and indistinct brown eyes.
    "Yes, a little. Mostly from what my parents yell at me. I also took it in high school. And you?"
    She did have a warm smile.Sam liked that, and maybe because she wasn't pretty, he didn't feel uncomfortable making small talk with this girl.
    "Me? Italian? No. Foxpro. Fortran. Cobol. C++. Those are my languages."
    "Computers, eh?"
    "Yeah," Sam said, slightly excited. "Do you know computers?"
    "Nah. Not for me. Too dull. Basketball is what I like to do more than anything else," somehow slipped from Donna's lips.
    "You're kindashort for basketball."
    "And you're kinda tall for stupidity. I'm a girl, in case you haven't noticed, and I only play against other girls, who are mostly short, and besides, I can make up for height with brains and speed," she finished with an air of confidence.
    "Sorry," Sam said. "I didn't mean to offend you. I love basketball. As a matter of fact, I'm picking up a fridge for a buddy I play hoopswith at the Rocky River courts."
    "No problem." Her lack of concern was genuine.
    She turned back to face the counter. A few minutes passed. She was bored.
    "So, you live on the West Side," she guessed, half-turning her shoulders.
    Rush Limbaugh's voice started to drift in from the back room. His voice was not familiar to them.
    "Me? Yeah. Buzz, my friend, does, too. He lives in Rocky River. Near thelake. I live in Rocky River, too."
    "So do I," she said. "With my parents. I still don't know why they insist on buying stuff in this dump."
    There was an awkward silence.
    "You men are lucky," she mused. "There's not much pick-up for women. I have to wait until the rec league opens the gym for us on Tuesday and Thursday nights. Even then, I play for five hours and feel like running for ten." Donnalooked away, as if picturing the games in her head.
    Sam took a closer look, and noticed the easy, athletic way she swung her arms when she talked, and that she wasn't so much overweight, but thick with womanly muscle in her shoulders and legs. She's a fireplug like Buzz, only a lot shorter, he thought.
    They went to a dusty old couch and sat down, continuing to make small talk. They both likedthe Cavs and loved the Indians–no surprise. She grew up in Little Italy and had one brother and two sisters, although her parents had moved to Rocky River a few years ago.
    Sam's father, a widower, had moved to Ann Arbor to take a position at the University of Michigan a few years earlier. He told her about his computer company, but tried not to brag. It took more than twenty minutes for the repairto be finished on the first man's oven.
    When the time came, it seemed only natural to offer to drive her home. Donna was picking up a small countertop refrigerator, and was planning to take the bus otherwise. He helped the proprietor load the two refrigerators onto the truck.
    "How were you going to get that to your house?" Sam asked reasonably as she stood next to his rusty Ford F-150 on MurrayHill.
    She hesitated, wondering if she could trust this stranger. She looked at him closely. Yes, I can.
    "I asked Saint Anthony to help me find a way. If worse came to worst, I could manage to carry it to the bus stop. Saint