Free The Lies that Bind by Judith Van Gieson

and ll, like the s in measure, the way they do in Argentina. I knew that because it was the kind of Spanish the Kid spoke. Before I heard that sound I would have thought Ramón spoke Castilian, except that you usually don’t find people who speak Castilian Spanish working in auto repair centers or even owning them. You didn’t use to find Argentines doing that kind of work either, until their country fell apart.
    â€œArgentinos?” I said.
    â€œ Claro ,” said Ramón, using an expression Argentines like, meaning “right.” “How did you know that?” One elegant eyebrow went up, the other remained wearily in place, a mix of passing interest and permanent disdain.
    â€œI have a friend from Argentina.”
    â€œWhere are you going?” Chico asked me, squinting his eyes and studying my face while I replied. His English was several years behind Ramón’s, but the accent was similar.
    â€œLos Verdes Meadows. You know where that is?”
    â€œSure,” Chico replied. “No problem.”
    Ramon looked at his watch and then at me without changing his superior expression. “Your car will be ready in one hour. Call when you want Chico to pick you up.” It wasn’t exactly service with a smile, but I kind of preferred his indifference to the aggressive politeness you often get these days. At least he didn’t have to know how I was or wish me a nice day.
    I followed Chico outside to the Mighty van. Los Verdes Meadows was only about a mile away. I thought I’d have to direct him, but as he said, he knew the route. He drove as if we were in a grand prix event and the Mighty minivan was a formula one racer. It took a certain amount of optimism or inexperience to try to turn an elephant into a greyhound. The minivan resisted, jerking forward when Chico braked, hesitating when he accelerated, swinging wide when he cut a corner.
    Los Verdes Meadows is a name that is known in the trade as real estate Spanglish, a combination of English and Spanish or a word that looks like Spanish but really isn’t. It was a destination development, the kind of place that has a golf course, swimming pool, sauna and workout room. The only reason you’d need to leave it would be to go to work or get food. If you clipped coupons and had your food delivered, you wouldn’t even have to do that. A lot of Duke City developments have sentry boxes at the entrance, but mostly they’re empty, just there for the looks. Los Verdes Meadows’s box happened to be inhabited by a guard, whose role was to keep the riffraff and solicitors out. He recognized the Mighty van and/or Chico and waved us in. It could be that a lot of people from Los Verdes Meadows had their cars serviced at Mighty, I thought. I’d never live in a place with a guard myself, even if I could afford it. But in Latin America they were commonplace. There they finish off the tops of their walls with shards of broken glass and rolls of razor wire, and their guards carry automatic weapons.
    Chico waved back to the guard. “Nice place,” he said to me.
    â€œI’m going to Juniper Road,” I said. “Do you know where that is?”
    â€œSure,” he replied.
    The houses in Los Verdes Meadows were built around a gully that was an extension of the golf course. The grass in the gully was sparse and sun-dried brown; the ticking sprinklers hadn’t been able to keep the course green. They should have dyed it grass color, the way they do in California. The houses were big and came right up to the edge of their lots and the edge of the gully. One bold and ugly architectural statement clashed with the next, but the strangest one of all was number 11, the house Whit and Cindy Reid lived in. It was a large white two-story clapboard Colonial with columns next to the front door and black shutters on the windows. It would have blended right in in New England. It stuck out like a maple tree in the