the masking tape on the lid. Printed in Leona’s strong hand were the words: MINESTRONE SOUP—THROW OUT AFTER TUESDAY. Next to it was a loaf of homemade bread.
Counting himself lucky to know Leona Parlavecci, he emptied half of the soup into a bowl, popped it into the microwave and went to the phone on the wall.
“You don’t have to feed me, Leona,” he said when she picked up.
The short graying woman with the thick Italian accent chuckled. “And you don’t have to overpay me when I clean your place, but you do. You like the bread?”
“Haven’t tried it yet. I just got in. But the soup you left is warming, and I’ll be cutting the loaf any minute.”
“Good! When I emptied your wastebasket, it was full of fast-food trash. You need a good woman to take care of you, Michael.”
Ike smiled. Leona was the only one who called him Michael anymore. The day they met she told him that Ike was a gangster’s name, and she didn’t clean house for gangsters. Michael, on the other hand, was an archangel. She never recanted, even when he told her he came from a long line of good guys—cops.
“I’ve looked for a good woman, Leona. There’s no one out there like you, and Frank would get royally ticked off if I moved in on his bride.”
Her merry laughter flowed through the phone line. “If you can’t find a nice girl, you’re looking in the wrong places. Go to church. We have beautiful young women at St. Joe’s.”
He grinned. “I’m not a Catholic.”
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