I assumed that Rathbone's dazzling real life and onscreen fencing skills were still available in this Holmes enactment. The literary Holmes had practiced baritsu, a fictional Asian martial art Conan Doyle invented decades before such skills showed up routinely in twentieth century action novels and films. Too bad Sean Connery's James Bond wasn't available, but the youthful Montalban had wielded a mean sword in pirate movies.

A thought occurred to me. "Are any of the CinSims in color?"

Claude drew back in melodramatic shock.

"No! It's the silver nitrate in the old films that both destroyed the strips and now preserves our performances. Look at mine. I had to convey my character and emotions with voice only. Not since the Silents had an actor met a more demanding challenge, if I say so myself. More rumors say that a color process is under development, but, frankly, all that gaudy hokum diminishes and distracts from the power and polish of the classic black-and-white format."

He sounded as snobbish as Hector Nightwine. In fact, I wondered if Hector might have leased him, not Snow. Being invisible, he could go anywhere. Snow had once appeared to recognize him, but that may not mean he leased him. My rotund boss had an appetite for the bizarre. Whatever, I had time to inquire into that later in places less unpleasant than the Sinkhole.

"So why do you want to hire me to find out who died with Cicereau's daughter?"

"Cicereau's a big guy in this town. His CinSims work under the worst conditions in Vegas. We like his fur ruffled and you're pretty good at it so far. Plus, you escaped his forced labor operation.

"Even a magician with supernatural connections hasn't been able to do that. That makes you our hero. We can watch your back if you'll go for Cicereau's front. Another thing-"

Claude hunched closer. I could see my white-blond self reflected in his dark sunglasses like I saw myself in Snow's shades. The similarity was unpleasant.

His gauze lips barely moved as he whispered. "The vampire CinSims are all disappearing. All over town. Even at the supernatural chicken ranches out in the boonies."

"There are vampire brothels?"

"Of course. Any flavor or twist of supernatural you want, male or female or question mark. They say the chupacabra three-way is out of this world."

Chupacabra! Irma made herself known. Ric's seen one in the Mexican desert; you've seen the tracks of one in a Kansas cornfield. What's a monster animal doing in Nevada houses of ill repute?"

Good question. The chupacabra was known as a goat-sucker, a blood-sucking creature that left its prey a desiccated sack of bones. How this could be put to erotic use without resulting in death was beyond me and I was thankful for that.

I thought of Count Dracula, the motion picture CinSim. Was Howard Hughes snapping up all the Vegas vampire CinSims for some reason? Could be. He shared Hector Nightwine's love of vintage films and had a billionaire's need for one thing more. Control. He'd been a "force" in Vegas once, he wanted back in, and vampires had been out of power in Vegas since they'd lost out when the city was being founded.

Hughes had hired me to discover the identity of young Miss Cicereau's boyfriend, another piece in the power game. Of course, Nightwine was also my client. If we knew the whole story, we'd have Cicereau on the ropes. Nightwine could film a slightly fictionalized version of the murders and Cesar would be toppled by the publicity and outed as a known… what was the word for killing a daughter? There were words for killing mothers and fathers and sisters and brothers, but I knew none for offing offspring. The ever-unpopular "child killer" would have to do it.

Snow, another power player, also wanted to know who had died with Cicereau's daughter and, like Hughes and Hector, had "hired" me to find the answer. Now here I had a fourth set of clients-rogue CinSim conspirators.

"Chickie-baby," a loathsome, lusting, derisive male voice growled into the haze of my macabre reverie.

The worst part was that I recognized it, even if the speaker didn't recognize me.

"Why's a hot babe like you sitting with these lame CinSymbiants, huh?"

The man had taken my tablemates for wandering tourists dressing up as their favorite hotel CinSims. That was a mistake.

He'd also grabbed the nape of my black leather vest.

That was an even bigger mistake.

Before I could even begin to tell Detective Half-balled Haskell to take his hands off me, Quicksilver, who'd been as still as a statue following our conversation, sped like a speeding bullet for his throat.

Haskell went down on the floor, with Quick growling and worrying at his most vulnerable areas-throat, gut and crotch.

"Back! Off!" I ordered, careful not to use the dog's name.

Haskell had glimpsed Quicksilver once, but had never heard his name. At the time, Haskell's attention was fixed on me, so I doubt he had even registered the wolfish breeds Quicksilver combined.

As far as I knew, since our round at the Enchanted Cottage Haskell now had only one ball left and was three times meaner than before. I didn't want Quicksilver snacking at his crotch because I was sure that no balls would make Haskell almost supernaturally dangerous. The last Sinkhole attack on him might have started something like that already. In the post-Millennium Revelation world, it was vital to watch out who, or what, you were bit by and how often.

Ric had gone incognito into the Sinkhole; someone, or something, had inflicted nasty extra damage on Haskell's body parts after Ric left him unconscious.

I had a few friends capable of the same vengeful instincts as Ric on my behalf. Quicksilver's gusto for the crotch area made me wonder what he did on his solo midnight runs. Nightwine could have sent one ugly CinSim of a customer after Haskell once he'd viewed the security tape of the cop mauling me in his very own treasured Enchanted Cottage.

At that moment, the silver familiar moved from my neck to make a chain-wrapped fist of my right hand, reminding me that maybe Snow could spy on me through the artifact. Even he might not like the corrupt fuzz hitting on his newly-wired toy.

All speculation was moot now. Haskell didn't know that blond Sinkhole Biker Girl was Delilah Street.

Quick had obeyed my command, a growl warning his prey that this was just a temporary truce. I took a deep breath…

… and expelled it as hot-tempered Ricardo Montalban hauled Haskell up from the floor.

"Puerco! Hijo de puta! You dare accost a woman sitting at my table?"

And Montalban essayed a fist to the chops that laid Haskell back down again.

"I'm a representative of the law," Haskell screamed at the lowlifes gathering around.

Sherlock Holmes bent down to blow pipe smoke into Haskell's face. "If this is a representative of the law, I'm the Dalai Lama."

Then Holmes hauled him upright without losing a breath to puff out smoke.

"How shall we expel this noxious snake? Is there a vampire in the house? Bites and blood-sucking are extremely effective ways of dealing with snake venom. I confess that I do not believe in vampires, but one would certainly be useful in this instance."

The Invisible Man had doffed trench coat, hat, sunglasses and gauze and was now invisibly pummeling Haskell about the head and chest like a frantic windstorm.

"Take these thugs into citizens' arrest!" Haskell shouted, dodging unseen blows.

The problem was one of the few human bodies in the place was looking picked upon. Visiting tourists, CinSymbiants and human riffraff rose in a wave from the wide-screen sports TVs at the bar and the small cocktail tables anchored by some CinSims of their choice.

"That's okay, officer! I'll help," a beefy man in Bermuda shorts and a Hawaiian shirt called, wading into the battle. "Hang in there," he added, an unfortunate choice of expression for Half-balled Haskell.