Phoenix, Arizona
May 10, 1989
Mason Hills was by no means a precocious part of Phoenix, given it looked over most of the city. Yet the neighbours weren't fond of the newly married couple that had moved into the modest little home that sat in between their pseudo-palaces. He looked white enough, and in some respects, so did she. But they weren't white. The chatter between the bored housewives of Mason Hills usually revolved around why any of their kind dared to move into a fine, upstanding white neighbourhood, where his money came from, what he did for a living. The suspicion about the man's income was deserved, although they could likely never imagine why.
Never bothered to entertain white American ideas of sensibility. A working class Hispanic man (he detested the use of the term Mexican, having been born and raised in America) had no concept of what white America was, or what white Americans did, his exposure prior to his elevated wealth and status were likely the worst of white America.
He did what he was used to, and that was that. He spoke Spanish at home, cooked Hispanic food and lived, more or less, a moderately wealthy Hispanic man's life. In some respects, he revelled in ruffling the feathers of the terminally curious.
The alarm clock began to screech at half past six in the morning. Alex stirred and then finally eased himself out of bed. He walked around the bed and out the door into the hallway, grabbing a towel from the linen cupboard along the way. He went into the bathroom, had a shower, then returned to the bedroom. Victoria was barely awake herself, lying in the sheets hoping to go back to sleep again. He got himself dressed, a white business shirt with no tie, a grey blazer, matching pants and a black belt with matching shoes.
He grabbed his prized Colt Python revolver, chambered in .38 Special, put it inside his shoulder holster before strapping it under his left arm. He made sure his suit was tidy, his hair slicked back, his cuff links shiny, before making his way out into the kitchen. There he fixed himself some toast and coffee before going to the front door to grab that morning's paper. He returned to the kitchen, ate breakfast and read the paper, whose front page article was about the local crime boss being killed in a trap laid by the FBI as well as state and local police. Alex expression didn't change as he read the account of the death of his boss, or his wife's father.
The newlywed couple were still processing that information. No date had been set for the funeral yet, and undoubtedly the feds would be crawling all over it if they did. He finished breakfast, tidied up before heading to his office, where he placed a bunch of papers into a well kept black leather briefcase. He kissed his wife goodbye, who by now had risen out of bed and was heading to the shower herself.