Now the car looked like an ad for moldy pigeon eggs. Children pointed to it in the street and it wasn’t worth a damn for following anyone. A blind man could spot the old bomb in a blackout. The money to Ruth had been a secret from my brother Phil, a Los Angeles cop who wouldn’t have taken it in spite of his mortgage, his three kids, and a salary that wouldn’t keep a Tenth Avenue rummy in Cresta Blanca. If Phil found out about the money, he’d probably show his gratitude by tearing me apart and shoving me up his unpaid-for chimney the way Lugosi’s ape had done to the old lady in Murders in the Rue Morgue.

After I spent ten more minutes on nonstop talking and watching Lugosi pollute the San Fernando Valley with his cigar, the boy next door came out to announce that he was going to sit on Lugosi’s head. “Mr. Peters,” Lugosi said, clamping the cigar between his teeth and stooping slowly on one knee to accept the leap of the child, “you are hired for one week.”

The kid clambered up Lugosi’s back, and I reached out to give Lugosi a hand up. He rose with a pant and spoke around his cigar.

“Reach into my back pocket,” he said. “Take thirty dollars advance out.”

I did and returned the wallet.

“Call me tomorrow,” he said, turning with the kid clinging to him.

“You have any gum?” the boy said as I turned my back.

“Perhaps,” came back Lugosi’s Hungarian accent, which answer both the kid and I knew could easily be turned into a yes.

The next day while I was sitting at my desk listening to the dental drill in the outer office and trying to think of where to start and what to have for lunch, Lugosi had called to report another letter in blood. This one said: “Do not attend the Dark Knights of Transylvania or your next.”