I saw Bela Lugosi last on a late afternoon in 1948 or 1949. I was waiting for the light to change at the corner of Santa Monica and Sunset, when a car stopped with Bela in the passenger seat. He looked up and saw me, reached out his hand, as I did, but the light changed. His driver pulled away before we made contact, and although he turned and said something, I never saw him again alive. Years later, at his funeral, the King of the Vampires lay wrapped in his cape. With the passing of Lugosi, I felt as if I was present in a darkened theatre. The lights were out; the play was over. I have never visited his grave. I like to think he might not really be there. The best of Bela Lugosi is in my memory. I keep that alive.