He dispatched her to a private residential facility. For six months, Laurie shared a room with a sixteen-year-old actress and was visited by tutors, counselors, psychiatrists, and the actress's drug dealers. When she returned home, she found her mother ramming clothes into suitcases. The producer had begun divorce proceedings and rented them a small house on the edge of Hancock Park.
They scraped along on the producer's support payments. Laurie went to John Burroughs High and did her best to care for her mother, who slid pints of vodka behind the toilet, under seat cushions, and anywhere else she thought they might go undiscovered. She died the summer after Laurie's high school graduation. Laurie put herself through Berkeley with the help of scholarships and student jobs.
"And now my tale is done, because coming up on our left is the V.A. Hospital."
• 47
• The drive curved toward a distant hill, where a structure the size of a federal office building rose above oaks and beech trees. In the middle distance, men in shirtsleeves or bathrobes sat at picnic tables and strolled across the lawn, some of them accompanied by nurses. The stone-colored beeches sent tall shadows across the parking lot.
Inside, the scale of the building shrank to a narrow hallway leading to an open counter, a couple of pebble-glass doors, and a set of elevators. Everything had been painted government green, and the memory of disinfectant hung in the air.
"Where is Goya when you need him?" Laurie said.
A clerk too old for his smear of a goatee and ponytail leaned on the counter. "You wanted?"
I told him which patient we wanted to see.
He thought it over. "E-D-I-S-O-N, as in light bulb?"
"M-A-X," I said. "As in 'to the.' "
On the fourth floor, a lanky attendant in green trousers and tunic had tilted his chair against the wall, knit his hands behind his head, and closed his eyes outside a darkened room where a dozen men were slouched in front of a television set. When Laurie Hatch and I came up to him, he dropped his hands and shot out of the chair. He was at least six-seven and skinny, almost gaunt, like many very tall men. In a backcountry accent, he said, "You lookin' for someone, Miss, or can I he'p you in some othuh way?"
Laurie told him we wanted to talk to Mr. Edison.
"Max? He's in the TEE-vee rahm heah. I'll tell him he has comp'ny."
The attendant moved into the flickering darkness. Laurie whispered,"TEE-vee rahm."
"Like CD-ROM," I said.
A few seconds later, a small, compact man of about seventy with close-cropped white hair, a neat white heard, steel-rimmed spectacles, and an air of perfect composure emerged to take us in with a curious, lively attentiveness that admitted a flicker of surprise when he looked at me. He had that flawless, dark-chocolate skin that goes unwrinkled, apart from a few crow's-feet and some lines across the forehead, until it weathers into a well-seasoned ninety. Max Edison could have been a retired doctor or a distinguished elderly jazz musician. He also could have been a great many other things. The Jolly Green Giant followed him out.
"Mr. Edison?" I said.
He stepped forward, examining us with the same wide-awake curiosity, then swiveled on the balls of his feet to look up at the Giant. "Jervis, I'm going to escort my visitors down the hall."
Edison brought us to a tiny room with a single desk and bookshelves crowded with files. "You people know who I am, but I don't believe I've had the pleasure."
I introduced Laurie and myself, and he shook our hands without any sign of having recognized our names. His jeans had a sharp crease, his shirt was freshly pressed, and his boots gleamed. I wondered what it took to maintain standards like that in the V.A. Hospital. “I hope you came to tell me I won the lottery."
"No such luck," I said. “I want to ask you about someone you might have known a long time ago."
"Why would that be?"
"Let's say it's a family matter," I said.
His face relaxed, and he seemed to smile without quite smiling, as if I had confirmed whatever had been going through his mind.
"Does the name Dunstan mean anything to you?"
He crossed his arms over his chest, still smiling without smiling. "How did you learn I was out here?"
"From someone who doesn't want to be named," I said. "When I asked him about this person you might have known, he wrote your name on a piece of paper."
"Water's getting deeper and deeper," Edison said. “I used to know a man who married a woman named Dunstan."
"That could be," I said.
"Will you stop beating around the bush?" Laurie said. "He obviously knows it was Toby Kraft."
Edison and I both looked at her, then at each other. We burst out laughing.
"What?"
"So much for that," I said.
"Rut you knew it was him."
"Man didn't want to be named," Edison said.
“I spoiled your fun. I apologize. But I bet Mr. Edison could already tell us who we came here to talk about, and I only have about an hour before I have to drive back to town."
"Could you?" I asked Edison. "Do you already know?"
"Why don't you tell me, so I won't have to guess?"
"Edward Rinehart."
Edisonlooked at the door, then, with less than his usual composure, back at me. "We should grab some fresh air. It's so pretty under those trees, you can almost forget where you are."
• “Toby Kraft. I called him 'Mr. Inside,' because that's what he was."
Max Edison faced the tall beeches and the long green lawn from the end of the bench across our picnic table. He had slipped dark glasses over his eyes, and his legs in their knife-creased jeans extended out to the side, crossed at the ankle. One elbow was propped on the surface of the table. He looked as though he had joined us for a moment before moving on.
"When I got back from the war, I had a leg injury that kept me from doing heavy work, so instead of one big job I had a bunch of little ones. Swept floors and washed windows. Ran numbers. Driving jobs. After a while, some people decided I was reliable."
Edison turned to me. "Know what I mean?"
"You did what you were supposed to do, and you kept your mouth shut."
"Toby Kraft asked me to help out in the pawnshop three days a week. I knew he was doing more business out back than up front. I'm not accusing him of anything, understand, but when Toby gave you my name he knew I'd have to say some of this. If I'm going to talk about Mr. Edward Rinehart, he's in there, too."
I nodded.
Edison turned the dark glasses to Laurie. "You don't have to hear any more than you want to, Mrs. Hatch."
She said, "At this point, Max, you'd have to drive me away with a whip."
Hesmiled, uncrossed his legs, and swung in to face us. He put his arms on the table and folded his hands together. "Every town the size of Edgerton has a Mr. Inside. He can tell you where to go if you want something, and the name of the guy who can help you get it and who to see afterward."