FIRST LADY

A New Story By Dee Raymond

FROM THE FRYING PAN

The dank atmosphere of Perez' basement became even closer as the evening wore on. Of the three men huddled against the cement block walls, Esteban Varga was clearly the most uncomfortable. Rivulets of warm perspiration ran down his thin, lined face, bringing a salty taste to his mouth. Every now and then he would flick the gathered beads of sweat from his eyebrows with a grimy hand. His hollowed-out cheeks and general pallor spoke of long time spent in confinement. His companions, Martinez and Allarcon, stolid, fat-cheeked, bushily mustached, were equally bathed in per- spiration; but they waited with patience for the conspirators on the outside to decide that it

was safe to bring them out into the house.

It was Isidro Perez him- self, old, white-haired and stooping, who finally released them late in the evening. The store-cafe was closed and shuttered by then. The air,

to

Perez and Isabel Ortega, was hot and too close, but they dared not open a shutter. To the three ex-convicts, however, it was a relief to move about and in relatively unconfined

cooler air to that which they had been breathing.

"They got Joaquin, Jose Martes and Sophia this morn- ing!" Isabel spoke clearly and with passion. Her natural, curled black hair was cut short, accentuating her high cheek bones and brown eyes, so dark that they appeared to be black. She wore a white shirt over blue jeans and hikers' boots.

Of the three men in hiding, only Esteban Varga showed any emotion at all at her words. Shock and disappointment were clearly apparent on his face. "Perhaps," he whispered, “I ought to give myself up." The black shirt and pants he wore made him seem thinner than he was.

"Fool!" There was scorn in Isabel's voice. "How long do you

""

think you could stand up to interrogation? Besides,' she became contemplative, "they're not really after you. I doubt that they even care that you're on the outside, and least of all to care is that precious sister of yours. No,"she shook her head. "they're trying to put all the Opposition, no matter what the politics, behind bars."

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There was a silence in the kitchen of Perez' cafe. The old man's wrinkled face, huge bags beneath the eyes, were as ex- pressionless as Varga's guards. The somber mood was broken by a sudden, abrupt rapping on the heavy, bolted door that led out into a side alley. The rapping stopped, and then began again in a rhythmic beat of two and then three short raps. Isabel signalled to Martinez, who moved quietly and cat-like towards the door. The bolts were slipped back to admit a young, black-mustached man into the the kitchen. He looked about him furtively as he darted into the room. Martinez closed the heavy door with surprising quietness and leaned heavily against it. The intruder stood before Isabel, panting slightly as if he had been running. "Gonzalo sent me," he gasped, his eyes flicking about

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