of being taken there after school each day, he didn’t remember Pauline or Jimmy Grant, and had no real recollection of Robbie Robinson.
“Is your mother still living?” Mark asked.
“No, my mom died in 1977.” He paused, then asked, “How come all you ask me about is this child care center?”
I explained that the victims had all come to Las Piernas at the same time, following the closure of the center.
He frowned. He kept his eyes on the beer bottle when he asked, “Does this mean I haven’t helped you out after all?”
“You’ve helped,” I said.
Mark surprised me by changing the subject. “Mind if I look at that photo over there?”
Edgerton shifted a little in his chair, and suddenly became fascinated with peeling the label off the bottle. But he said, “No, go ahead.”
Mark stood up and walked to the other end of the room.
“Sorry if I was a little abrupt with you when you first got here,” Edgerton said, still concentrating his gaze on the label. “I’ve been on edge since I read about the Mercury Aircraft thing, and having the cops around here all the time — well, I feel like I’m the one who’s done something wrong. I feel hemmed in. I was supposed to go hunting tomorrow, now they tell me I probably shouldn’t be off alone anywhere. Guess I blamed the paper for the cops camping out here.”
I was about to reply when Mark shouted, “The Dodgers! Good Lord, look at this, Irene!”
Edgerton glanced up at me, then shrugged. I went over to where Mark stood.
“Duke Snider, Gil Hodges, Jim Gilliam, Carl Furillo, Johnny Roseboro,” Mark was saying. “And check out the pitching! Hell, there’s Koufax, Podres, Drysdale — what year was this taken?”
“1958,” Edgerton said.
“1958? The first year they played in L.A.?”
“Yeah. Otherwise not a banner year for L.A. We were 71-83 at the end of the season.”
“We?” I asked, but Mark had already picked him out.
“Look, he’s right here!”
Sure enough, a younger Don Edgerton stared back at us from the photo, his posture just as good in those days. He was right in among those people whose baseball cards I used to carry in my back pocket like a family photo album. My collection didn’t start until the 1960s, but I was a devoted Dodgers fan. While Barbara screamed her way through ten or eleven screenings of
“You played with the Dodgers?” I was still amazed.
“Just about long enough for them to take that photo,” Edgerton said. “They called me up for a cup of coffee. I was back in the minors after three games that year.”
“Still, you made it to the big show,” Mark said. “And it was tougher then. Fewer teams, smaller rosters.”
“Oh, I got called back a few times. I was a utility infielder with a decent glove, but I couldn’t consistently hit a curveball, so I’d always end up back in the minors again.”
“How long did you play in the minors?”
“Oh, about eight years. Coached for a while in the minors. Then I came back here and worked for Las Piernas College. Coach baseball, teach fencing and archery.”
“Fencing and archery?” I asked. The guy was full of surprises.
“Yeah, outdated skills, some might say. But I’m a believer in them. I have this theory. Men aren’t men anymore. We’re all getting too soft. Fencing requires grace and agility and quick reflexes. I’d like to see some of these kids that are so hot with video games try it. As for archery, well, that’s how I do my hunting — strictly bow and arrow. Guns aren’t sporting, if you ask me.”
Before I could make a response, he turned to Mark and said, “You did pretty good on that photo. Most people your age can’t name half those guys. Are you a player or a fan?”
Mark smiled. “Both, I guess. I played center field for a semester in college before I ruined a knee.”
The next thing I knew, a serious — and I mean serious — baseball discussion ensued. “Let me show you some other photos,” Edgerton said. He took us down a hallway to a small back bedroom that had been converted into an office.
There was an old olive green filing cabinet and a big wooden desk. A computer sat on the desk, a bulky plastic cover tossed to one side of it. There were framed photos covering almost every inch of wall space. Most were of the Dodgers, many much more recent than the one in the living room.
“These are terrific,” Mark said. “Are you friends with the team photographer?”
“No,” he said, turning red. “I took them. Hobby of mine.” He saw me walk over to the desk — I admit I was hoping to snoop a little — and quickly ushered us out of the room again. “Look, if there’s nothing more I can do for you…”
“Nothing more at the moment,” I said. “Thanks for your help. And for the opportunity to see your photos.”
We said pleasant, if somewhat rushed, good-byes and left.
“OKAY, OUT WITH it,” Mark said, starting up the car.
“He’s a strange one. And he’s nervous about something — I noticed that even before he gave us the bum’s
