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By then, both visitors’ guns had hit the carpeted floor with a thunk, thunk.

Apparently the Darth Vaders were all scary masks and no bloodlust. They’d fired warning shots into the floor. Now they were cursing and backing away in tattered cloaks through two of the open doors, pursued by … cannibal cats.

Temple had no intention of following the fading Vader invaders, even if they were disarmed. The Neon Nightmare offered too many escape routes. Carmen was eyeing the fallen semiautomatics like a hungry tiger, but the other two were staring at Temple. Temple heard a soft click behind her and felt an opening door bump her rear. She knew it was time for a dramatically astounding exit.

“Sorry,” she told the literally shell-shocked Synth members. “I was looking for the restroom. This place is a maze. Anyone ever tell you that? And you have a very bad infestation of really big rats. I won’t be coming back.”

By then the attack cats had also ebbed into the “maze.” Temple backed through the door Midnight Louise had opened, leaving the Synth still immobile and herself in the slightly lambent dark. Which was lit by an honor guard of vivid green irises pointing the way to a presumably vermin-free path downward and out to the main nightclub floor.

She took it and would ask questions later.

At least she knew for sure that Max’s magic fingerprints had been all over this place. If he had also been the Phantom Mage, the odds he had died were fifty-fifty. What Rafi had described had sounded too traumatic for any sane person to set up for himself. On the other hand, a master illusionist like Max would want any feigned final exit to look impossible to survive.

Murder in 3-D

When Temple awoke the next morning, she felt as if she’d been in that old Memorex tape commercial. “Was it real? Or was it Memorex?”

Her memory felt hung over. The Synth showdown she’d witnessed at Neon Nightmare unwound in her mind like a dream, even though a nightmare scenario involving disgruntled but corny stage magicians, the disbanded IRA, and Max Kinsella was starting to add up to something big.

Her nightclubbing clothes were strewn around the room—not like her—and she was curled into a ball because Midnight Louie’s hot, hairy body was plastered against her legs. Surely her eyes had been playing tricks on her in that creepy, dark lightning-struck nightclub with its network of secret passages.

She couldn’t have really seen Midnight Louie cloned to the ninth power and in frantic attack mode, or any Darth Vader clones either.

Temple decided to reach out to the real world. First she checked her iPhone for messages.

Matt had called and left a long, sweet, sexy missing-you message that had her kicking Louie out of bed to run to her computer to download it for future replay on rainy days and the next time Matt was out of town.

Then … darn! Nicky Fontana’s message wanted her to attend a fancy-dress gala command performance at Gangsters at 4:00 P.M. Temple checked the bedside clock and groaned. Eleven A.M. already!

She quick-dialed Nicky to question the wisdom of plowing ahead with the Chunnel of Crime and got her marching orders instead. Yes, the police were totally okay with them “test-driving” the vintage cars rail-run. The vault and environs had been released as a crime scene and the Olympic games could be held there, as far as Detective Ferraro was concerned.

No, there was no progress on the Sparks killing, but the police seemed to find everything involving the Glory Hole Gang, “Concrete Boots Benson,” the Chunnel of Crime, and cats too outré to deal with. Just don her glad rags and get over to Gangsters for the dry run.

Temple, exhausted and confused after her intense night before at the Neon Nightmare, knew a PR person must be on call around the clock, especially in Las Vegas. Holding a “dry run” near a bar and restaurant named Speakeasy’s was a contradiction in terms that tickled her funny bone, and she much needed something distracting at the moment. Besides, Nicky was her boss. He was so jazzed about introducing the installed 3-D Chunnel run. Previewing an ambitious new Las Vegas attraction was an invitation Temple couldn’t refuse, even if several pesky mysteries simmered behind the scenes.

She decided to consider touring the Chunnel a welcome break in her investigation, especially now that she’d penetrated the Neon Nightmare–Synth connection. She replayed Matt’s message, showered, microwaved an individual pizza and gulped it down, raided her closets for a slinky, black-crepe thirties tea gown and some kicky heels, replayed Matt’s tape, and by three thirty was riding the cocktail carousel down to Gangsters’ lower and most lurid depths.

The Chunnel of Crime was fully gussied up for company now. It resembled a subway tunnel without any stops except beginning and end. Black-and-white gangster movie stills wallpapered the tunnel sides. These bigger-than-life scenes of movie mayhem would appear almost animated as the limos glided past on tracks. The blowups also served as background “sets” for the 3-D filmed scenes of vintage movies Santiago had projected onto both sides of the tunnel.

For now, only one side was activated, so the trial-run spectators could stand against the clear opposite wall to watch the rail-adapted vintage cars glide by like the showboats of style they were.

Some were elegant conveyers of moneyed mobster kingpins; others looked like they’d been grabbed on the run outside a just-robbed bank. Almost all of them were shiny basic black with slit-windowed and cavelike passenger compartments. Until now, Temple had never realized that the automobile designs of early decades emulated the closed, private-to-the-point-of-paranoia urban carriages of the nineteenth century. People today were used to full exposure, more than ever, with every cell-phone camera a potential online media nexus.

The cars’ exuberantly accessorized exteriors were a different matter.

Even the lowlier cars sported bubble fenders and running boards. They had Bugsy-eyed headlights sitting up high and lonesome above twin chrome horns and fog lamps, alongside dazzlingly large vertical chrome grills, almost like horizontal harps. Some big-city mobstermobiles screamed “sleek and expensive.” Others hoarsely declared “Clyde Barrow’s hijacked budget back-road Fords.” Some were pricey Packards and Buicks, according to Nicky, who introduced the lineup like a proud father. One was a gorgeous dark purple Hudson Terraplane.

“Did they have stretch limos in the gangster days?” Temple dared to ask.

“Since before the real Depression, little girl,” Macho Mario replied. “I’ve ridden in a beauty like that Hudson, only it was painted a rich cream color. That car was class. Black is for funerals.”

“Cream is too visible for a getaway car,” Nicky pointed out.

“Since nineteen twenty-eight,” Eduardo Fontana said, bending down to answer Temple’s question. “That’s when the stretch limos first came in. There are plenty of the oldies still out there. We picked up some for this light-rail gig. Our own street chauffeuring business relies on creating new lavishly customized stretches with a Vegas theme.”

Temple nodded, having seen the mind-blowing old and new selection in the car service’s parking lot.

“These smooth rides-on-rails are perfecto,” Santiago proclaimed, his white tropical suit blossoming into the Fontana’s dark pinstriped midst so he looked uncannily like a ghost of the brothers’ usual selves. “In South America, older American cars are treasured.”

Temple swallowed her natural comment. She could picture Santiago being driven around Vegas in a white stretch 1961 Cadillac limo with chrome fins from here to eternity to match his ego.