A single street light illuminated thirty-six-year-old Tony Asta’s Italian looks as he walked toward the entrance of a popular Scottsdale, Arizona jazz club. Scottsdale, in the Valley of the Sun just east of Phoenix, was the playground of the wealthy and wannabes. Although he was not much more than five-foot seven, his strides were long and purposeful. His brown eyes were friendly one moment and cold the next. He glanced up and down the brightly lit street lined with nightclubs on both sides. Cars inched up and down the street; horns blared, kids hung out the windows and yelled at their friends. At a distance, he could hear the sound of sirens. Despite the lingering heat, the sidewalks were jammed with young people laughing and hanging onto one another. Tony liked to watch the young, especially the girls with bare midriffs and skin-tight clothes that barely covered their tushes.