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Meanwhile, Macho Mario was playing the tribe elder and escorting the renovation’s main forces into various cars.

“Here.” He gestured the five booted and bejeaned former miners, who looked the most at home in a dark tunnel, into a six-seated thirties Ford. “You Desert Rat Pack boys can ride in the Longhorn-mobile.” He gestured to the pair of chromed steer horns riding the car’s narrow hood.

Nicky joined the diminishing knot of guys surrounding Temple. She was surprised the Fontana brothers and Glory Hole gang had gathered around her and Santiago, when not thirty feet away, Van von Rhine stood with her statuesque blonde classmate from Swiss finishing school, Revienne. Two sleek blondes should attract more men, Temple thought, especially the charm-spreading Santiago.

Hey, Temple thought again, Van had snagged the first Fontana brother to ever wed. Opposites do attract, and Revienne seemed born to snag another bachelor Fontana brother. Then Temple would have a fourth bridesmaid for her so-far-fictional wedding party. Better to dwell in the future than the confusing past.

She cocked her head and cast an inquiring glance from Eduardo to Revienne to Eduardo. “I’m surprised you and your bros aren’t making a beeline to that foreign honey.”

His head shook almost imperceptibly. “She’s taken.”

“How do you know?”

“That’s my job. I work in a ‘people’ business.”

“She says she’s single.”

Eduardo discreetly elbowed his nearest brother, temporarily known as Ralphie the Wrench, in the, ah, elbow. When Ralph looked his way, Eduardo shifted his eyes sideways to Revienne.

“Nice icing, but no go, bro,” Ralph murmured, smartly shooting his suit sleeves to reveal the onyx links on his baby’s-blush-pink shirt cuffs.

Fontana Brothers were so cool.

If guys unafraid to wear pink were wary of Revienne, it explained why Temple found her troubling. It seemed the woman was watching them all, Temple especially. Temple must be imagining that, because she was not the type people took seriously enough to watch. Which was their mistake. So maybe Revienne was not just foxy looking, but foxy sharp.

Temple glanced back as the last Glory Hole Gang scuffed boot heel disappeared into the vintage Ford. They’d never had the money their old associates, Boots and Jersey Joe, had cheated them of, but then they were here, still kicking and cooking; Boots was just a bizarre museum piece, and Jersey Joe, the ghost of a sad, reclusive bankrupt.

Temple’s heart warmed to see the Glory Hole Gang together again, jazzed on a new enterprise at their ages, a recognized historic part of the Vegas scene, worthy of a prime seat at the pre-pre-pre-opening run of this groundbreaking new attraction.

Nothing really got lost. Even Boots had experienced his new day in the sun, if a bit too literally. And, thanks to his supposedly hidden loot, Jersey Joe Jackson had remained a force around the Crystal Phoenix long past his death.

Heck, with all the dead actors resurrected for these still and moving media effects, this could be considered a zombie jamboree. The party certainly was of mixed company.

Lined up along the dark place where dark floor met dark faux-stone tunnel wall was Midnight Louie … and Midnight Louie and … Midnight Louie and … Midnight Louise with the waggly, fluffy tail.

Maybe Temple’s suddenly misty vision was turning Louie into multiple images. She wasn’t surprised to see him. He often decided to go everywhere that Temple went, and his coat was black as coal. His last command performance with the Cat Pack had been stellar.

She was sure Macho Mario wouldn’t have a free car to usher Louie and Louise and pals into. Three O’Clock Louie she recognized on second thought. He had finally moved his center of operations from Lake Mead to the Glory Hole Gang’s Gangsters suite and the Speakeasy bar and restaurant.

She recognized from the Neon Nightmare the cat among them with the half-masted eyelid. Poor thing. She’d take it home to the Circle Ritz if she could catch it … which didn’t look likely from the battle-scarred condition of that eyelid.

“Okay,” Macho Mario announced behind her, addressing his nephews, “boys, you climb into the stretch nineteen thirty-seven purple Hudson Terraplane.”

“There are eight of us,” Julio’s deep voice objected.

“Bend your knees and scrunch. Besides, purple complements that girly pink in your pinstripes.”

“Ah, Uncle Mario,” they moaned in chorus.

“Guys are secure enough these days to wear pink and carry mother-of-pearl pistols,” Ralph said.

“Only on Broadway, boys, only on Broadway. Now, scat!”

Temple turned to watch. It was like loading up a clown car, all those tall, lean, butch but modern and sensitive Fontana brothers, crouching to enter the Tom Wolfe–extravagant Chrome-Covered Purple-Flake Streamline Baby, baby!

Revienne should be so lucky to have such a ride.

Temple took a step forward to get into the next free car, a totally cute black thirties number that was tiny and low-slug but all bubble curves, when Nicky’s hand on her arm held her back.

“Getting whisked away by your own publicity plans?” he asked softly. “Let Van and Revienne ride in that petite mobster motor.”

“But …” Temple watched two smooth blonde heads duck inside and sighed. “Oh. Yeah. It suits them.”

She had to admit, blondes seemed made for black gangster cars. Maybe she could hitch a ride on a Mickey Rooney jalopy with a rumble seat.

“We’re the ones who orchestrated this trip down memory lane,” Nicky went on. “You, me, Santiago, and, of course, Uncle Mario as a rep of the old days, will bring up the rear.”

“Right,” Temple agreed, no longer carried away by her own hype.

Count on Nicky to save the best for last. The next car was to drool over. It was the always-elegant-and-deadly black, of course, with whitewalls and a running board and dainty, classy, cuff-link-size touches of chrome here and there and everywhere, like diamond jewelry on wet black velvet.

Nicky gestured Santiago in first, so Temple had less far to crawl in. Santiago doubled over, but his wool-silk suit blend didn’t wrinkle, just as his face never did. So mahogany rich and dark and sooo smooth.

Nicky bent to take the opposite seat, his uncle easily managing to follow. Macho Mario had inherited the Fontana empire when short and stocky genes ran in the family, before the next generation got their cod-liver oil and vitamins and added a few inches to better show off designer Italian tailoring.

Temple bent only slightly to walk into the commodiously high seating area. Before Nicky could draw the door shut after her, a wave of Cat Pack oozed inside to circle Temple’s bare ankles—and help show off her black-satin forties-style strappy platform heels, which matched the car with their rhinestone-buckled ankle straps.

She giggled.

The Cat Pack tickled.

“Well,” said Macho Mario, eyeing the four black cats. “Some people think these things are unlucky, but I say, at least we’ve got personal protection against those dirty rats we saw down in the tunnel at the empty Jersey Joe Jackson vault. I always said Jersey Joe was all hotel and no capital. And his Action Attraction never got tourist traction. This will be the first time the old fool made money in Vegas, instead of hiding it.”

Santiago seemed uneasy about the foot-level feline honor guard. He shook out his pale, exquisitely flared boot-cut pants legs and muttered, “Black cat hairs,” with a shudder. “Not unlucky, only tasteless.”

He moved to edge away from his window seat, but Nicky put a hand on his arm.

“Better stay put. We’re not using seat belts yet. No time to install them in these vintage honeys before the trial run. Hang on, we’re moving!”