They escorted us up the narrow stairs, through the theater lobby and to the door, where hands reached out to pass me my coat and Lugosi his coat and Homburg hat.

We exchanged thanks, well wishes, invitations, undying love, and promises to be pen pals before we opened the door.

“Good night,” Lugosi said over his shoulder and stepped into the cold darkness with me behind. In the past week, temperatures had hit lows of 29 and highs of 40. I had a coat from Hy O’Brien’s Clothes for Him on Hollywood. The coat had been a bargain. I got it for only three bucks more than I had sold it to Hy for a month earlier.

There was no sky and almost no light. Blackout conditions had cut off the street lights and most businesses didn’t keep a night light. They didn’t want the first Japanese bombs to land on their taco stands. We stood there for a few seconds, trying to adjust to the darkness, and then I started toward my car, but there were no footsteps behind me. I turned and made out Lugosi’s shape a dozen feet away.

“My hat,” he whispered.

At first I thought he had said, “My bat,” and considered the possibility that he had gone stark raving cuckoo, but he repeated it and I got it straight.

“It’s in your hand,” I said.

“And there is something in it,” he answered. My eyes were beginning to pick out little details now, like the trembling of his hands. I moved fast to his side and took the hat. I reached inside it and touched what felt like a sticky piece of cloth. I led Lugosi quickly to my car, got him in, and went around to get in on the other side. I started the engine and flipped on the overhead light. A lone car went down the deserted street, and we waited for it to pass before we looked down at the piece of black cloth I had pulled from the hat. The writing was in blood or a good imitation.