Grogan’s car came to a stop in the parking area adjacent to a large four-storied, colonial-style structure, its orange-and-white pennant reading Southeast Boat Club.

“Wait here,” Grogan said, the first words he’d uttered since they started the ride.

Grogan got out of the car. “How long you gonna be?” Corey asked.

“Thirty-forty minutes,” Grogan said. “You mind waiting?”

Corey shrugged. “I’ll listen to the ball game.”

Grogan walked across the parking area and entered the clubhouse. For a few minutes Corey listened to the radio. Cincinnati and Philadelphia were tied three-three in the fifth. Robin Roberts was pitching for Philadelphia and he gave up a single. Then an infield error sent the man to third. The next man walked. The announcer said, “Now Robin’s in a lotta trouble--”

Got my own trouble, Corey told the radio. He wondered why Grogan had brought him here. He switched off the radio and tried to think in analytical terms. It was no use. He was thinking in terms of the platinum-blonde hair and the dark green eyes.

On the river a four-oared shell was coming toward the dock of the Southeast Boat Club. A single sculler was heading out. On the dock eight men in their late twenties and early thirties were hoisting a gleaming mahogany racing shell high above their heads. The tiny coxswain yapped instructions. They carried the shell across the planks and down the ramp to the water. Now some older members of the boat club came out the side door, walked across the parking area and along a gravel path leading to the dock. They were in their fifties and sixties, and one of them, Corey judged, was over seventy. Some wore orange jerseys and orange-striped white shorts. Others were stripped to the waist. Arriving on the dock, they moved briskly, diligently, readying their racing shells for the water. Corey shrugged and thought, some people never give up. I guess you gotta hand it to them. It’s like watching Archie Moore climbing into the ring. Archie would enjoy this demonstration. He’d understand it. Be damned if I can understand it. Well, that’s how it goes. Every cat to his own alley.

He saw Grogan coming out the side door. Grogan’s silver hair was mirror-bright in the sun. Under one arm, Grogan carried two long oars, the blades painted orange and white. There was a white sailor’s cap in his hand, the brim turned down. His chest was bare and he wore bright orange shorts, white socks and spotless white sneakers.