Night had come. There was a big moon on the sea. The house was yellow with electric light. We ate in the dining room, side by side as the chef served shrimp on skewers, then pad Thai. I was interested in the bad time, the lost years, drugs and prison, but did not want to be a jerk about it. I eased the conversation into a question about a specific event, sometimes called the Goldilocks incident, in which Downey’s neighbors came home to find the actor passed out in their 11-year-old son’s bed—apparently because that one was just right.