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No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, with the exception for brief quotes for reviews.

ISBN: 978-0-615-78745-9

ISBN: 9780692297612

Library of Congress Control Number: 2014940672

This book is printed on acid-free paper.

Printed in the United States of America

DEDICATION

FOR MY MOM

This is my story as I remember it. All of the events and experiences are true and have been written down as I recall them. To protect the privacy of some people, some names have been changed. The places and locations are the same. Conversations in this book are to the best of my memory.

The majority of the dialogue was done in my native language, and it was translated to reflect the best possible meaning of what was said, combined with the mood and the circumstances of the event.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

First and foremost, I wish to thank Allah for giving me the motivation, inspiration, and will to write this book, and most importantly for giving me a way to release all those dreadful memories buried deep inside of me.

Incredible gratitude goes to my sister, Adnana, without whom this book wouldn’t have come to fruition. Thank you for sticking with me all the way to the end. I couldn’t have done it without you.

I’m forever indebted to Nermin, Šejla, and their wonderful family for their support and generosity. Also thanks to Alen, the greatest bombaš of all, and his family. Special thanks to all my family, especially my aunt Sabiha in Denmark, and my cousin Sanela in Atlanta.

Writing this book, I received invaluable help from many people, but I want to express my special gratitude to my brother-in-faith, Dawood, for hustling and getting me early copies of the manuscript when I needed it most. Great thanks to my brothers Abdul-Rahim and Rahmat for their eagle eyes for spotting all the typos and errors that I missed, and also to Amin for his invaluable advice.

Mark Keiser deserves special mention. Thank you for your belief and support from the early stages of this manuscript. Your lessons were invaluable. Also great thanks to another mentor, Mr. Gary Waffle. Thank you for your expedited editing and all the help.

For ordering books from the outside library—even when I didn’t ask for them—I am grateful to Mr. Jackobson in the Education Department. Also great thanks to my first reader, Robert Burns. For his tremendous assistance, great thanks goes to my fellow gambler, Kenneth Bounlangsy.

My gratitude goes out to all the writers through whose books I had learned the craft and came to appreciate the wonderful world of writing. I gained a tremendous deal of respect for all of you.

And of course, great thanks to my great readers, wherever you are. I hope you learned something from these pages.

Lastly, but most importantly, my greatest gratitude goes to the person who gave me everything, but whom I managed to disappoint and hurt the most, to my wonderful Mama. Love you.

THE END

The dam of emotions collapsed, and the horrific images from the deepest recesses flooded my mind. Blood-curdling screams roared in my head, extinguished by the rattle of automatic gunfire. I am lost, trying to figure out what happened. Who am I? What am I doing here? Why is my face on fire? And then a foggy puzzle of memories slowly started piecing itself together. Casino. Tunnel. The heist. The bag full of cash. And right now I am the hunted animal.

My heart thundered as the numerous chopper blades whirled ominously above. The fluorescent light flickered and the reek of an unpleasant sanitizer filled my nostrils. The fire ate away the flesh on my face, and as I gazed in the mirror of the deserted restroom, the creature in the reflection wasn’t me. Through my blurred vision, I stared at the identical image of the monster I saw years ago in the reflection of the Vrbas River.

I knew I didn’t have much time, and I had to act fast. My survival instincts kicked in, and I had to escape from here by any means necessary. Any moment, bloodhounds could be storming in to kill their prey. I quickly washed my pepper-spray-sprinkled face while my mind tried to calculate all the money in the big duffel bag. The money belonging to people who took from me.

I dried my battered face with paper towels. A deep breath saturated my brain with oxygen, and my mind cleared. There were no windows here, so I stepped toward the only exit—the door. Please let it be over. Get it done. No! It’s not over! Never give up!

Ready to face my destiny, I grabbed the door handle, when a tremendous crash on the other side made my heart stutter. Thousands of thoughts flooded my mind, all of them bad. I was inside long enough to give my hunters sufficient time to organize and prepare an attack. Are they breaching the doors to see if I’m in one of those rooms? Would they shoot me on the spot? Can I outrun them? I opened the door and waited a second, half-expecting a shoot-out. As I stepped onto the carpeted hallway, I realized the source of the loud crash.

The squeaky, plastic wheels of the housekeeping cart wiggled over the worn-out carpet as the cleaning lady struggled to control it down the deserted hallway. She stopped in front of one of the rooms, took her master key out, and disappeared inside. Passing by, I threw an inconspicuous glance inside as she performed her regular housekeeping chores. Business seemed to be as usual. The place looked like some kind of hotel, but each door I passed had a name plate under the numbers. A couple of old residents crawled by me.

The stale air was mixed with the smell of the synthetic air refresher, and the whole place seemed deadly quiet. Two more centurions chatted in front of the room. As I inhaled the surroundings around me, the lyrics of the song, Hotel California came to my mind—“you can check out any time you like, but you can never leave.”

Another housekeeping lady closed the door and went on with her business.

“Can you tell me where I could find the house phone,” I asked in my most polite tone.

She directed me toward the lobby which was in the same direction I was already headed.

The lobby was decorated with either thrift-store or antique furniture—I couldn’t really tell—and it was filled with the old residents who excitingly gazed out the window.

“There is more of them!” an old, hunched-back lady exclaimed.

“What do you think, who’re they looking for?” a tall, pencil-thin, spectacle-wearing resident asked.

I saw the phone in the corner and confidently strolled toward it. Nobody seemed to pay attention to me. I sat in the worn-out chair and dialed the number. As I talked on the phone, I scanned the room, memorizing the layout. A moment later, I stood and glided toward the elevator. More residents crowded the lobby, and I knew I couldn’t stay here much longer without somebody noticing me. I realized this was some kind of a retirement home, and the youngest person seemed to be seventy years old.

Stepping into the elevator, I joined another red-faced resident. I exited on the desolate third floor and headed toward the window. There was a large gathering of spectators to the right of the building. Further down, a few Scottsdale police cars blocked the street. To the left, two uniformed cops guarded the perimeter. A few more of them walked down the parking lot. The self-preservation kicked in—the same feeling I had a long time ago during the war. I realize I was in the middle of the police anthill. The only way out is to pass right in front of them. And that’s exactly what I’m going to do.

I turned around and headed back toward the elevator when a balding man in his early forties approached me. The name tag on his shirt indicated he was a manager, and right away I saw a suspicion in his eyes.

In times like this, there is no time for panic. I learned that a long time ago. You have to be calm, cool, and collected. You think; you plan; you observe.

“Do you know what’s happening outside?” I asked courteously before he could say anything. “I’m about to take my grandma out, but now with all those people outside, I don’t know…” I could see his defenses breaking down.

“The police are looking for some people who just robbed the Casino Arizona.” He gave me a few more details of information when apprehension painted his face. “Who are you here to see, anyway?”

“I’m visiting my grandma, Ms. Shafner,” I lied confidently, remembering the name on one of the doors. “In fact, I should be meeting her in the lobby right now.”

“Oh, okay. We can never be too careful.”

Turning around, I disappeared into the elevator. I was a clean-cut white boy, and I would never fit a description for any kind of criminal. But looks can sometimes be deceiving.

I stepped back into the lobby, and it was boiling with activity: people on crutches, in wheelchairs, crawling and walking, raced with purpose toward the windows in hope to see the action. But they didn’t know that the action was only a few yards away from them. The outside noise grew louder as more choppers joined in. Everything seemed unreal, like one of my bad dreams, but the burning of the pepper-spray made it more than real. Just relax. You were in far worse situations than this.

One of the residents threw a white shirt on a worn-out couch, and then crept toward the window. I calmly strode forward, snatched up the shirt, and within seconds, I was outside.

The shirt was a bit long and reeked of a cheap cologne. I rolled up the sleeves while absorbing my surroundings. The epicenter of activity was a few hundred feet to the right. A large group of people assembled in the parking lot and watched the show as a swarm of SWAT officers geared up for action. A hundred feet to my left was a Scottsdale police officer guarding the perimeter. His eyes trailed a guy who strolled toward the gathering of spectators.

Out of his sight, I observed the cop for a few moments. His eyes were now focused like a hawk on its prey—the guy in blue shorts who strode down the long walkway toward the brown-brick building. His back was turned to the cop, and he couldn’t see he was being observed. The guy saw three more Scottsdale police officers scanning across the parking lot, and he instantly turned around and retraced his steps. He obviously had a dislike for cops, I thought. The hawk-eyed cop behind him immediately got on his shoulder radio, and the cops in the parking lot switched into alert mode.

At that precise moment, I stepped on the empty street and casually strolled toward the large group of spectators.

The late morning sun spilled fire on my face, as a flock of metal birds rumbled in the clear sky. Fifty yards from the target: I began to feel my beating heart. Thirty yards away: I could hear the chatter of the people in front of me.

This is going to be the longest walk in my life. The adrenaline poisoned my blood, and as I inched closer, a team of fully-geared SWAT officers sneaked toward a single-story building. A FOX 10 news van screeched in and joined cars from other TV stations, and began hoisting its satellite dish so they could broadcast live, in their Phoenix studio. Fifteen yards: the beeping and crackling voices of police radios chirped all around me. Spectators were gathered in the parking lot of some kind of medical-office building with news reporters in the front rows.

Scanning the ocean of wide-eyed faces, I kept a mental check on every stray glance and lingering gaze. I approached the crowd, and the short, mocha-colored Telemundo TV reporter jumped on me and stuck the microphone under my mouth. My heart did a somersault in my chest before I realized what had happened.

“I have no idea what’s happening there,” I fired off. “That’s why I came here.”

The reporter immediately lost interest and turned around. If you really knew who I was, you’d have an exclusive story right now. I pushed my way toward the center of the crowd and quickly befriended a few people.

“It seems like they got the guys that just robbed the Casino Arizona,” a young Hispanic in a baseball cap told me.

“I heard it turned into a hostage negotiations,” an attractive lady in her forties added.

In times of panic, I found that people open up and are capable of telling you their innermost secrets. They also like to exaggerate during the times like this. SWAT teams are ghost hunting. I hung around for a couple of minutes and watched the SWAT officers’ every move. Deadly, serious frowns covered their faces as they crept toward the single-story office building on the other side of the road. Seconds later, they joined another group that left minutes earlier, and they all disappeared from my view. I turned around and strolled toward the medical office building. Inside, I was greeted by the frosty air conditioning and sour looks from the employees.

“Can I get a cup of water?” I asked the cute, young receptionist across the counter.

She walked to the water cooler, and came back shortly after with a disposable cup filled with clear liquid.

“What’s happening outside?” I asked curiously.

She gave me a thirty-second version of Casino Arizona saga, slightly different than I had heard outside.

“We have a pizza guy waiting outside to deliver us our lunch, but the police won’t let him in,” she added bitterly. “And they won’t let us leave from here to eat out. We are basically locked in here.”

My bad, I thought. But you’ll survive. I thanked her and exited. I thought I was safe, but I had just found out otherwise. The whole block was sealed, and I needed to get as far away from this place as possible. I was surrounded by the army of heavily-armed law enforcement, SWAT team, and FBI. If I get questioned here, I could give no rational explanation as to why I was here. I had no ID, no car, no friends, or any business being here.

There was a wall behind the crowd, and that was my way out. It separated the parking lot and the apartment building behind it. All eyes were directed toward the epicenter of the action—the building across the street where all those SWAT team officers disappeared. I separated myself from the group while still facing the building. There was a muffled explosion—a flashbang or a shotgun blast—and everybody held their breath. The only noise was a distant traffic behind the apartment building. I took that chance and strode toward the back wall. In a flash, I scaled over it and found myself in the apartment parking lot.

The silence was broken with shouting and yelling on the other side of the wall, and I hoped it wasn’t because of me. I walked by the young couple who just exited their truck, but they didn’t pay any attention to me. There were more people in the parking lot, so I blended in easily. Shortly after cutting through the apartments, I faced a small street with minimal traffic. There was a sidewalk, but no pedestrians on it. To my right, there was another police cruiser holding the perimeter. I turned around hoping to find another way out of here, but after fifteen minutes, I was back at the same place. This time I saw a young Hispanic strolling worry-free straight toward the cop. A moment later, he was stopped and the interrogation began. As the cop was busy with his new friend, I stepped onto the empty sidewalk and walked away. A patrol car raced past me, and I froze. After a hundred feet, I made a first left, and then another right. A few moments later, I saw another pedestrian in front of me. The farther I went, the more people strolled around me. I felt safe. The air smelled like freedom.

Ten minutes later, I marched inside the Scottsdale Memorial Hospital, passing a uniformed cop who watched breaking news on TV: “BREAKING NEWS! CASINO ARIZONA HEIST! THE SEARCH FOR THE SUSPECTS STILL IN PROGRESS!”

I found a spot in the waiting room next to the phone and dialed my ride. After giving him my location, I hung up. I felt all eyes were on me, my stained sweat pants, my disheveled hair, mismatched shirt. A few minutes later, I passed by the same cop, and this time our eyes locked. My heart stuttered, but there was no emotion on my face.

The waves of heat lingered above the scorching asphalt as the sun rays continually pounded on it. Cars paraded in and out of the parking lot, and everybody minded their own business.

Forty-five minutes after the phone call, the white Mazda pulled over, and sixty minutes later, I was sitting in my living room. On TV, there was breaking news on almost every channel: “GUNMAN BARRICADED HIMSELF WITH THE HOSTAGES AFTER THE CASINO ARIZONA ROBBERY—NEGOTIATIONS IN PROCESS!” The screen flickered with a dozen of fully-geared SWAT officers as they prepared to hunt for me. They are looking for a ghost. At that moment I realized how dangerous I really am.

THE BEGINNING

I will paint for you the masterpiece of tragedy, love, success, and terror, that those untouched by it never see. All these things coupled with my addiction to gambling, or more specifically, a debt to one person, led to the execution of this casino heist.

I came from a country that radiated with an aura of death, oppression, and unimaginable violence. As a young boy, I witnessed acts of terror, torture, and violence, which I kept suppressed inside my head for a long time. Acts of violence that I will never be able to forget; acts of violence that will make most people sick; acts of violence that I was scared to talk about; even think about; acts of violence that I placed in an unbreakable box buried in the deepest corner of my mind with hopes of keeping it there forever. But nothing stays locked up forever. With the power of the pen, the unbreakable box will be opened, and like the blood of all those massacred victims, my story will be spilled over the pages that follow.

I came to the United States in August of 1996 from a culture where any act of terror or violence could be justified, rationalized, or spun the other way around to mean the opposite. Coming into this new world, I wanted someone to explain how the rest of the world could allow those atrocities to happen. I haven’t yet found the answer.

I quickly discovered America to be a roaring sea of life that blended different races, religions, and beliefs. How could it be? All those people, so different, and yet everybody gets along. The place where I came from, everybody was the same—same color, same language—and they tried to make each other extinct. This new world made me forget my past—at least temporarily—and embrace the present in hopes of living for the future. But later, I found this was only a deceptive picture lingering on the surface of the water, while the dark monsters of hypocritical politics roamed deep under.

The city they chose for me and my family was Phoenix, Arizona. It was the first time I experienced desert weather. The moment the sliding door opened at the Sky Harbor International Airport, my body collided with perpetual waves of heat mixed with thick stench of smog. I didn’t know anybody; I had no knowledge of the language or the culture. But that didn’t stop me. It only gave me more strength, motivation, and ambition to strive harder. My primary goal was intellectual development. With a choice to enroll in high school or trade school, I chose trade school.

Phoenix Job Corps was located in downtown Phoenix, close to the Phoenix Suns’ stadium. It was a second chance at an education for high school dropouts and gangbangers, as well as newly-arrived immigrants. The first few weeks were the hardest. I just sat in the classroom in the last row, pretending to listen, and praying not to be called to say something. Some people probably thought I was dumb; however, I embarked on an intellectual ship and started learning at light speed. By May of ‘97—several months after arriving in U.S.—I got my GED and started college.

My first job was at the Doubletree Hotel in Scottsdale, where I was a servant for the rich and privileged. I was in school from eight to three, then I would hustle to Scottsdale to start my shift from four to eleven, or later. It was exhausting, but I liked it because it kept me busy. After I got my first car—a ‘91 Mercury Sable—things got a little easier, but at the same time, as a family driver, there was more responsibility for me.

I attended Phoenix College full-time, majoring in criminal justice. Around that same time, I switched positions at the Doubletree from Housekeeping to the Bell Department. They paid me minimum wage, but the tips were huge. It was a well-guarded secret, but after the word leaked out about the great monetary incentives—in the form of tips—managers from other departments started switching positions to work as luggage carriers and valets. So after the upper management found out that baggage carriers made more money than their MBA-holding peers, they decided to reform the Bell Department. They separated it into two departments: Bell and Valet. After that, our profits were reduced, and a lot of old timers left to look for other jobs. I was put in charge of Valet, and I loved it. Whenever I’d put my hands on a classy exotic, I’d take it for a quick spin down Scottsdale Road to make sure everything was running smoothly. Time flew by, and I worked hard, both physically and intellectually.

After the transmission on my Sable broke down, I had saved enough money to buy my second car, a ‘92 Lexus ES300. It was burgundy, spotless, with tan leather, gold, spiked rims, and it was indestructible. I went skiing with it—literally. Even swimming. After plunging it into Lake Pleasant, my best buddy, Alen, and I changed all the fluids, and in no time it purred like before.

My flashbacks subsided, and I didn’t have a nightmare in over a year. Until this one night.

We had a big function at the hotel—a high school prom—and the night was electrified with excitement as hundreds of teenagers dressed in their best suits and dresses rolled in in their parents’ Mercedeses, Lexuses, and BMWs. For over an hour, the place was a flurry of activity as I greeted them with my joker-trained smile. The air was radiant with happiness as excited teens glided through the lobby. After we parked over a hundred cars, the teens moved to the big Ballroom, and the place died down. At least temporary.

It was a beautiful desert night as I watched the granite horses bathe in the fountain. The cars sped by on the busy Scottsdale Road as I wondered what it would be like to go to a prom. I was robbed of my high school experience, and now, seeing the glow and happiness on all those faces, I wished I could be there too.

A little after eleven the chaos began. Excited teens stormed out and presented their valet slips as we dashed back and forth to retrieve their cars. A young, smiling couple gave me their slip and shortly after, they drove off in their car. The wave of beaming kids flooded the entrance of the hotel, but they didn’t seem to be in a hurry.

In all that frenzy, an older couple came to check in, and I quickly directed them to the front desk. A few minutes later, I was riding with them in a golf cart toward their room. After helping them settle in their new residence, I raced back to help retrieve the cars. The screams and cheers of joy could be heard from the other side of the hotel. I rolled around the circular driveway and glanced at the front entrance. Smiles, cheers, and happiness penetrated the warm night as my co-workers sprinted back and forth retrieving their cars. Some young couples hugged and others horsed around. All of them sparkled with picture-perfect of happiness. I rode parallel to the Scottsdale Road where rivers of cars rushed along.

All of a sudden, a tremendous blast shattered my ears, and the frenzy of swirling lights spun toward me. I reflexively steered to the left as the twisted pile of white metal stopped several yards away from me. There came big “oohs” and “ahhs” from the crowd of young spectators, and then the only noise I heard was the murmuring of the nearby fountain. Instinctively, I jumped out of the golf cart, and within a few steps I was at the passenger side of the crumpled white car. Right away I recognized the young couple whose car I had retrieved moments earlier. The girl was unresponsive; her lacy prom dress now colored in red; her head was slightly tilted to the left as her eyes stared in the distance—without blinking. I’ve seen this look before. Blood spouted from the mumbling driver’s mouth as the coppery smell assailed my nose.

“It’s okay, don’t move. You’ll be okay,” I tried to comfort him, though I didn’t believe my own words.

The crowd of teenagers closed in as my co-workers stood behind me. Then screams began piercing the silence of the night. Dozens of girls shed tears as the word spread that their friends were in the car. For the first time, I realized there was another car sitting in the middle of the road. The hood of the red Acura was crumpled like a discarded piece of paper, and the engine’s fluids were leaking heavily onto the asphalt. As I approached the driver’s window, the reeking battery acid stung my eyes. Both air-bags were deployed and the only passenger was unbelievably responsive. The toxic stench of liquor slapped me across my face.

“What happened?” he slurred, looking around.

“Just stay still.”

The sirens roared in the distance as I raced back to the mangled, white car. When I saw the girl, I knew she was gone. The blank expression and the look of the eyes trailing its departed soul was familiar to me. But unlike before, the expression on her face was tranquil, almost peaceful. The happy memories from the last few seconds before the impact were still locked on her face. There was no horror; there was no fear; there was no torture like on the faces locked in the deepest corner of my mind. She never saw it coming. Everything slowed down, and seconds felt like hours as the cars on the other side drove in slow motion. The passengers stared at the tragedy without blinking as their cars crawled forward.

The young driver stammered something, and I comforted him for a few more minutes until the paramedics arrived and took over. Shortly after, the Scottsdale police secured the perimeter, and everybody was ushered toward the front entrance. Everything ceased. Nobody wanted to leave. The smiles and cheers were replaced with cries and sobs. Tears streamed down the girls’ faces as their companions tried to comfort them. Hundreds of gloomy looks stared at the red and blue swirling lights. The perfect picture of misery.

I was there until two in the morning. Tired and broken down, I left for home. As I drove down a deserted Lincoln Avenue, passing multimillion-dollar mansions artfully hidden behind tall hedge fences, I debated if I should still go to Salt River. I thought about the girl; I wanted to be wrong; I wanted her to be alive, but I knew better. She was dead; her bloody image will be stored in the horror gallery of my mind until the end of my time. I escaped Bosnia only to come here and see dead people—again.

I sneaked up to my room and, with my clothes on, crashed on the bed.

I bolted up with darkness all around me. My heart thundered, and my shirt was soaked in cold sweat. The dim green light of the digital clock illuminated the dark room: 05:05 a.m. I was reluctant to go to the bathroom, but I knew better. It was only a dream. A dream I had many times before. And after all this time, it came back to haunt me again.

I took a quick shower, called Alen, grabbed a bag, and silently exited the house. The first traces of daylight victoriously emerged on the horizon as I drove through the empty streets of Phoenix. Ten minutes later, I entered the Foxwood Apartments on 27^th Avenue. It was a low-class neighborhood that many newly-arrived Bosnian immigrants called home. Alen’s family was one of them. Old clunkers decorated the oil-stained parking lot as I circled around. The honk of my horn pierced the silence of the dawn, and a moment later, Alen emerged carrying a bag. He wore blue shorts and a colorful Hawaiian shirt. His sky-blue eyes and a mop of blonde hair easily attracted the opposite sex. Even though he was a year younger than I, most of the people thought he was the older one. Two inches shorter than my six-two, he was a dashing figure that bore a striking resemblance to the actor Leonardo Di Caprio.

He was from Goražde—a small town in southeast Bosnia—and he lived here with his parents and two younger brothers. One flaw that he had was his right hand—his severed fingers looked like a giant claw. I never asked him what happened, but Alen (like Alen), told a lot of contradicting stories. He was known for his fairy tales, but I learned to accept and love him for who he was. He was my best friend, and I would have done anything for him.

“How was your night?” he asked, wiping the sleep from his eyes.

“Busy.”

Tubing at Salt River was a blast, and I had underestimated the power of the desert sun; as we drove back it felt like my skin was shrinking. We stopped at Aloha—a small Bosnian coffee shop—and I used the phone to call home. The second Mom answered, I knew something was terribly wrong.

“Where are you?” Mom screamed.

I instinctively moved the phone a few inches away from my ear. My heart skipped a beat as numerous horrors rattled in my mind.

“What’s wrong?” I tried to stay calm, but inside, the rivers of anxiety coursed through my body.

“Who did you have an accident with?”

“What are you talking about?” I stepped outside to have a private conversation.

“The girl in the other car died!” Mom started sobbing on the other line.

“Mom, please calm down. That wasn’t me —”

“It was you. Jane called me this morning and asked about you!”

My mom was working in the same hotel and has heard that I was somehow involved.

“I was only working last night. I saw it happen, and that’s all.”

I talked to her for a few more minutes, but I had a feeling that my words did not transmit to the other end.

“Give him to me!” I could hear Father’s angry voice. “Why didn’t you come home last night?” he asked.

“I did come home.”

“Don’t lie to me!”

I could visualize his red face and his neck bulging three miles away.

“Come home right now!” Father screamed and disconnected.

I went back inside, placed the phone on the bar, and without a word left.

Ten minutes later, I marched into the house. Mom was visibly upset, her eyes glistened with tears, as she was chugging on a cigarette. I hadn’t seen her smoke in months. Adnana, my little sister, was in shock as her eyes were locked on a TV. Father paced around the room, and the moment I walked in, he stormed outside, presumably to check the “consequences” of my accident.

“What happened last night?” Mom asked, now much calmer.

For the next half an hour, I retold the happenings of last night, and I could see the shock drain from their faces.

“And why didn’t you come home last night?” Mom asked.

“I came home, but it was late. And shortly after five, I left. I told you I was going to the river.”

“I can’t believe Nermina,” Mom said. “She was translating for me, and she said you were the one involved in the accident.”

The next day, I found out that Jane, the director of the Human Resources, a small and pleasant woman, called Mom to talk about me. Because Mom did not speak English, she had asked another employee to translate for her. Jane just wanted to ask if I needed any counseling because of the last night’s accident. Unfortunately, that employee did not understand English as well, and almost gave my mom a heart attack.

After Doubletree, I changed jobs at three different hotels; Downtown Hyatt Regency being the place of my last employment. At that time, I decided to sacrifice my academic development for a career in business. Capitalist at heart since I was born, I always wanted to be in the business world. I loved cars, and decided I wanted to work with them. After doing extensive research, I found out it wouldn’t be too hard to become a licensed car dealer in the State of Arizona. The state required an office space with a visibly posted business sign, a couple of parking spaces, and a twenty-five thousand dollar bond—piece of cake, I thought.

I found a cheap office on busy Camelback Avenue with a front-road exposure—another plus. With the landlord I negotiated a few parking spaces. The business sign would be visible for three hundred feet as required. And the bond… I visited almost every insurance and bonding agency in the city, and they all denied me. My credit wasn’t good enough, they all told me. So a proposal came from one of the bonding agencies that if I put half of the money, they would give me the bond. I had some money saved up, so the most important prerequisite for the license was taken care of. A few months later, I got my dealer’s license and quit the job at Hyatt. I was a business owner, therefore, the money should start pouring in. At least that’s what I thought.

I refinanced my condo, and with the money purchased my first two cars at the auction: a black ‘92 BMW 325i, and a maroon ‘95 Ford Taurus SHO. They were impulsive buys, and it took me more than six months to sell them. Alen didn’t have a car, so I let him drive the SHO, while I was cruising in the Beemer.

Around that time, I struggled financially; I was perpetually late with the office payments; I neglected supporting my family. But I was happy. Careless, but happy. These were the times of adventures, first love, childish spirit of exploration, and freedom. One day I would be in the deserts of Phoenix, and the next morning, I would be eating breakfast in San Diego—with no plans, with no worries.

I was at the brink of getting evicted from the office, and therefore, losing my license, so I sold the Beemer and the SHO at loss, and with the money I decided to take this business seriously.

THE BUSINESS

The sound of my Nokia woke me up. I glanced at the clock, and it wasn’t even five. Thousands of questions dribbled through my mind as my heart thumped in the silence. Maybe one of my friends got into a car accident? Or their car broke down? Or even worse, somebody was calling from the hospital? Or jail? I looked at the caller ID and didn’t recognize the number.

“Hello,” I answered almost whispering.

Anticipation lingered in the darkness as the pulse thundered in my eardrums.

“I was zaling about zour Probe,” a heavily-accented voice echoed on the other end.

On one hand I was relieved. On the other, I was fuming. Who the hell calls you at five in the morning to ask about a car?

“I want to buy zour kar.”

“Yes,” I said, emerging from my thoughts and back into the business mode.

I gave him a brief description of the Ford Probe that I had advertised in The Arizona Republic, the mileage, and the address where he could come and see it. After arranging a time, I hung up.

It was Saturday morning, and I knew it was going to be busy day at the office. On Thursday, I had bought six cheap cars, and all of them were now advertised for sale. My new business strategy was to sell as many cars as possible while earning a decent profit—a high quantity, low profit strategy. After some research, I found out the big sellers are the cars under two thousand. Most of the cars I bought for under five hundred, and now they were advertised for about a thousand. This was my first time doing this, and I was excited. After that phone call, I took a quick shower, got dressed, and drove to face my first customer of the day.

By seven, I was at the office, and my guy was already there. A funny-looking Asian hopped around the red Probe as the light traffic on the Camelback Road buzzed by. His red shorts were almost pulled up to his chest, accentuating his pale, toothpick legs. The square, nerd glasses decorated his head that was a few sizes bigger than his frame. I mentally calculated he could be in his early twenties.

Introductions were made, and then, upon his request, I started the car. After a quick test drive, he bought it without any negotiations. I took him to the office, gave him a forty-five-day registration, and told him to come back on Monday to pick up the title. I knew this was only a beginning. Since leaving home, five more people called, and one of them was already on the way here.

A half an hour later, a young Hispanic couple pulled in in their old F-150. Both of them seemed a few years older than I and spoke decent English. They were here to see an ‘89 Toyota Corolla, and before they arrived I did whatever I could to make it as presentable as possible. I had paid only three hundred for it. It was an old, raggedy car, but the engine seemed sound.

“The engine and the transmission are good. It is not as presentable, but it will take you where you want to go,” I said, closing my sales pitch after they test drove it. “And now days, you can’t even buy a bicycle for this price.”

They stepped aside for a moment, and started rattling in Spanish.

“I’ll give you eight for it,” the Mexican said a moment later.

After some price haggling, we met half-way, and the second deal of the day was made.

By nine, two cars were sold, and as my Nokia perpetually sung, I scheduled two more customers to come around noon. I closed the office and went to the nearby Bosnian coffee shop, located a few hundred yards away.

Café Aloha was a place where regular city rumors were updated and amplified, and it soon became my second office. Located in the Fry’s Plaza Center and surrounded by ghetto, it was a favorite place for many newly-arrived Bosnian immigrants. I walked into the cold and almost desolate darkness as the light ethnic music spilled from the speakers. Cuco, the bartender, who stood behind the horseshoe-shaped bar, argued with Pegi, one of the regulars.

“You can’t be here all day without buying anything,” Cuco told Pegi.

“Jarane, I can’t be drinking coffee all day long,” Pegi responded, stroking his chin with his hand, his well-known trademark.

“But you can drink it if somebody else buys it for you.”

After I sat at the table, Pegi immediately joined me. I ordered a cold Frappuccino, and a coffee for him. Cuco left to prepare our drinks, and Pegi started his regular tattle.

“Jarane, I’m waiting for this Mexican chick to call me.”

Pegi was a notorious penny-pincher, and getting anything for free was his way of life; I liked him nonetheless. His slender, six-foot-two frame was adorned in blue jeans and a white polo shirt, a size too small, that accentuated his protruding Ethiopian-hungry-kids belly. He was a Croat from Zenica who made friends easily, especially among women, who found his dark, glossy hair, caramel skin, and shattered English fascinating. One part of him that made his face look almost comical was his super-sized nose. But in a curious way, it held an almost extra-magnetic attraction. He also had passion for names—names he liked using when meeting women. Today he was Anthony, tomorrow Luigi, the next day Armando. He had so many aliases, even he forgot what his real name was.

“This girl is bomba,” he continued.

“Yeah right,” Cuco interrupted sarcastically, as he clattered our drinks onto the table. ”He’s been talking about this girl for a week, and nobody has seen her yet.”

Cuco was his contender, almost a foot shorter than he, and since he started pumping iron, it would be easier to jump over him then go around him. He was Versaceing a gray silk shirt and dark dress pants. His expensive habit of cultivating hair like grass was draining his wallet, and last week, he went back to his old, bald self.

“You’ll see her,” Pegi said assuredly.

“I just hope she’s not the one you were telling us last time who ended up looking like an ape,” Cuco laughed wholeheartedly.

With a smile and without interrupting, I watched them as they exchanged verbal punches. I wasn’t questioning Pegi’s abilities to pick up girls. In fact, just the opposite. Pegi was seen with some very attractive ladies, but he had no boundaries and would smash anything of female origin.

As time passed, my cell sung the Nokia Philharmony, empty tables filled, and the chattering and clinging of glasses radiated throughout the place. Before the end of the day, I sold two more cars, bringing the total to four.

The next day, I followed the same ritual, and the remaining two cars were sold. But the people didn’t stop calling. Therefore, with the plan to go to the auction and buy similar cars, I kept telling them to come on Friday to check out the vehicles.

*****

I was closing the office when my phone rang.

“Hey buraz, can you come and pick me up?”

“I’ll be there in ten,” I said and hung up.

When I turned into his apartments, Alen was already waiting in the parking lot. He quickly jumped in, and I drove toward 24^th Street. On our way there, he complained about his off-and-on-fling with Heidi, saying he’s not happy with her.

“I’m getting sick of her.”

“You were sick of her from the beginning.”

“I’m breaking up with her. And you should do the same with Cakana,” he suggested.

Cakana was Germanized seljančica from one of the villages around Teslić, a small town in northern Bosnia. She had piercing blue eyes that sent tremors through my heart. The first time I saw her, I told myself she was going to be mine. In the beginning of our relationship, she had a Pit Bull—her older brother—that followed her every step of the way. If he wasn’t around, Danina, her best friend, was a third wheel. Danina had a huge crush on Alen, and Cakana always wanted to hook them up, but to no avail. In a few weeks, Cakana and her family were moving to Atlanta, so we tried to spend most of our time together. She proposed that she wanted to stay here and couldn’t imagine being separated from me.

Then there were talks about getting an apartment together, about marriage, settling down, having kids… Having kids! I am a kid. Kids don’t have kids. So I politely told her she needed to go with her family, and we would visit each other as often as possible. We would figure it out later. But she wouldn’t take no for an answer, and she firmly insisted she would be moving back to Phoenix for the summer.

When we reached our destination, the daylight had faded, and the first stars flickered in the sky. The Coffee Plantation on 24^th Street and Camelback, was a meeting place for refugees from the former Yugoslavia, as well as other countries of the Central and the Eastern Block. Surrounded by the upscale shopping stores and restaurants, it was a place to see and be seen, filled with never-ending city rumors, hustlers, and wannabes who spent their days cross-legged, drinking endless cups of coffee while thinking of the next big thing.

The Plantation was packed as the live band, The Gypsies, entertained the vivacious crowd. Hopping around, the bald guy with the violin strung highly-energized notes as the girls in traditional gypsy clothes danced exotically amidst the crowd. As we approached, high-pitched voices screamed our names.

“Jimmy, Jimmy! Alen, Alen!”

Jimmy was my nickname, and almost no one called me by my real name. I looked to the side, and at the front table two identical girls bounced up and down like two energizer bunnies. Their hands waived at a furious speed while megawatt smiles lit up their faces.

“Just ignore them,” Alen said, turning around.

“Oh no, you won’t be able to ignore them.” I smiled as we pretended not to see them, but the squawking, screaming, and waiving intensified.

“As I told you,” I faced Alen grinning.

We stopped by the table of our female intruders, and exchanged pleasantries. Šejla and Selma*—the twins. Both were seventeen, but behaved like ten-year-olds. With quick tongues and high enthusiasm, they were considered royalty in Bosnian circles. They were spoiled yet good-hearted, and beautiful above all. Their light-brown hair perfectly matched their chestnut eyes, and their gorgeous smiles would overshadow the sun. Predisposed to exaggerating the severity of the most trivial cut or bruise, they were eternally racing off to doctors, as if they were about to die. They prided themselves on being from Sarajevo and had an open dislike for the village people. Both Alen and I were from the cities, and I guess in their book we were okay.

“Good evening,” we greeted them.

The moment we sat down, they engaged in their game of mocking.

“Look at her shoes,” Selma screamed, unconcerned that the girl passing by may have heard.

“What about them? Seljaci, right?” Šejla commented. When one would stop the other would continue where her twin left off.

Even Alen added a comment or two joyfully.

“Šejla, look at—”

“Come on, stop it,” I interjected.

They all looked at me. All the mocking vanished into thin air, and they changed the subject. Other than that, they were good company, and before we knew it, we were the last people in the place. Since Gypsies stopped singing, the crowd had dissipated. But the twins kept talking and talking. They would have sat there until the morning, but the curfew imposed by their worried parents made them leave.

As we strolled toward our cars, the desert breeze plastered our clothes while the curve of a moon hung in the sky. We said our farewells, and with their signature smiles, they got into their mom’s Nissan.

“Jimmy, you could call sometime,” Selma almost whispered before they sped off.

I could never imagined one of those girls having the potential to be my future wife.

THE LIFE

I stood on top of the world. The burning sweat sprinkled down my face, and as I inhaled deeply, my lungs saturated with the sweetness of fresh air. I was surrounded by the red rocks, and up here, every problem in life was left down below. Paradise Valley’s multimillion-dollar mansions—artfully hidden from the ground level—were all naked and exposed from here. I watched as cars, like ants, diligently raced in a maze of streets. Perfectly manicured gardens bathed under the morning sun. The soaring palms swayed with the warm breeze, while two little white dots danced skillfully on a tennis court. The skeletons of newly-built villas swarmed with activity as dozens of construction workers poured in and moved with purpose. On the surrounding hills, the castles embedded in the red rock towered watchfully above the valley. I looked above as a plane left a white trail on a perfectly blue sky. Even the air smells different here.

Hiking up the Camelback Mountain was one of my long-established rituals. Every morning after dropping Mom at the nearby Doubletree Hotel, I took an arduous hike to the top, and then after a quick descent, I raced home for a shower and another day at the office.

Today was Thursday, an auction day, and I had a little bit more time to enjoy the stunning view of the valley.

Camelback Mountain is one of the Arizona’s great hiking destinations recommended by many of the hotels surrounding it. It is located on the threshold of Phoenix, Paradise Valley, and Scottsdale, and is surrounded by multimillion-dollar mansions. I assume it got its name from the double hump that was distinctly visible from Camelback Road. Besides tourists from the nearby resorts, the regular guests of this hiking destination are doctors, lawyers, businessmen, and other professionals, as well as college and university students.

I glanced at my cell—time to go. My ascent was hard, but the descent was going to be easier. I decided to take a sprint down and try to break my last record of about eleven minutes, but I also risked breaking something else as well, if I was to fall down. That’s what had happened a few weeks ago when I misstepped on a rock and crashed hard, spilling myself over the scorching rocks like water over falls. Quickly standing up, I tried to escape as far as possible from my embarrassment and the trailing eyes of the nearby hikers. Today, a scar on my right knee reminds me of that painful day.

The time on my cell indicated it was eight-thirteen. I started running down, hopping from rock to rock like a frog, carefully looking in front of me and concentrating on my steps. As I flew by the other hikers, I could feel their bewildered looks trailing behind me. The summer wind plastered my sweat-soaked shirt, and the only sound I heard was the thundering in my ears. I debated if I should take the “camel hump,” the same way I ascended—the steep, and much harder way—or take the trail most hikers use. At the last moment, I decided to go down the “camel hump” with hope my anti-lock braking won’t let me down.