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Walt,” someone said. Grogan didn't seem to hear him. Grogan's eyes remained focused on Corey.
      Then very slowly Grogan got up from the chair. He moved toward the side door. He opened the door and beckoned to Corey Bradford. They walked out together.
     
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          Grogan's house was less than a block away from the Hangout. From the outside, it appeared no different from the other shabby wooden dwellings on Second Street. On one side there was a narrow alley. The other side gave way to a vacant lot littered with rubbish. The windows were grimy; there was no paint on the front door and in places the wood was cracked.

          Grogan unlocked the door, opened it and they walked in. Corey had never seen the interior of this house; but he'd heard talk about it and he'd thought the talk was exaggerated. Now he looked around and his eyes widened. The motif was Chinese, extremely expensive and elegant. The furniture was ebony and teakwood; the lamps and vases and ashtrays were rose quartz and jade. On the walls were silk-screen prints that looked like museum pieces. In one corner of the room there was a massive bronze statue of Buddha. From where he was standing, he could see into the dining room. The decor in there was also oriental, and through the dim green lamplight he saw an intricately carved table inlaid with ivory. Then he looked around at the furnishings in the parlor again. It's really something , he thought. It's like what you see in picture magazines.

          He sensed that Grogan was watching him, waiting for some comment. He looked at Grogan and said, “Well, I heard about it and now I believe it.”

          “It all comes from China,” Grogan said. “I've always wanted to see China. Never had the chance to go. Too busy. So I do the next best thing. I bring China here.”

          As Grogan was speaking, there was sound from the stairway. Corey looked and saw a female coming slowly down the stairs. She wore a silver-and-orange kimono. She was of medium height, very slender. Her hair was platinum blonde. Contrasting with her deep, dark green eyes.

          Corey had seen her before, but only from a distance. He'd seen her driving the Olds, and climbing in or out of the Olds when it was parked outside some store on Addison Street. It was always a candy store or a grocery store, and the only item she bought was cigarettes. She never went near the Hangout.

          From what he heard about her, she stayed in the house most of the time and seldom spoke to anyone in the Swamp. She'd been with Grogan for more than three years; and that was a long time for Grogan, considering he was fickle with women. The others had lasted only a few months. But she seems to fill the bill , Corey thought. You can tell from the way he looks at her. He's hooked, all right, he's really got it bad. I'd say she's about twenty-four. Another thing I'd say, she ain't no ordinary shack job out for free bed-and-board. Just look what she's got in her hands.

          In one hand she had a pair of reading glasses. The other hand held a book. Corey could see the title on the cover. He didn't know much about philosophy but he sensed that the book was strictly for deep thinkers. It was Nietzsche, it was Thus Spake Zarathustra .

          She hadn't yet noticed Corey. She stood talking to Grogan, her voice low but clear, her speech precisely enunciated, her grammar flawless. She was telling Grogan that she'd been in town today, shopping. She bought shoes and a handbag and then went to the beauty parlor. She had dinner in town and attended a lecture at the art museum.

          “It was a very interesting lecture,” she said. “It concerned the French Impressionists and the lecturer came out with some highly original theories. It was really worthwhile.”

          “That's fine,” Grogan said. “I'm glad you had a nice evening.”

          “It's delightful at the museum. I wish