A pudgy vampire with a soiled black cape sat on a coffin across from me sipping a bottle of Hires Root Beer through a soggy straw. His loose fangs kept slipping, and each sip brought a sound somewhere between an asthmatic whistle and terminal pneumonia. He was fascinating, but so were the other four black-caped vampires who surrounded my client in that damp basement. My client, wearing a conservative gray suit and a fixed, uncomfortable smile, used his cigar to keep the vampires at bay, but they weren’t to be denied, especially one white-faced woman with long raven hair parted down the middle.

“But Mr. Lugosi,” she panted, “When are you going to play a vampire again?”

Lugosi shrugged enormously, playing to his rabid audience. He was almost sixty and looked every bit of it and more. His face was puffy and white, his smile a broad V. He didn’t want to be here, but since he was, he couldn’t resist the urge to perform.

“Lou-go-she,” he corrected the woman, “Bay-lah Lou-go-she, but, my dear, that is of no importance. As to when I will play a vampire again, well, my friends,” he sighed, and the well came out “vell,” his familiar accent lying like goulash over his words. He took longer to get those last three words out than a doctor with bad news.