constricting as if under pres- sure. "I think we ought to take her downstairs, don't you, Maria?" she asked bel- ligerently, cowing the thin- faced woman. "She deserves a little fun for being such a good girl, doesn't she?"

"N-Now

Conchita,'

""

stammered Maria cautiously. "We've got to keep her out of sight. Jorge and......

>>

""

"Oh, forget them,' snarled Conchita, hauling her- self up from the old, deep armchair where she'd supervised the re-dressing of 'Irena.' "I should think that you were fed up of being stuck in here anyway."

"Y-Yes,

began.

but......" Maria

Conchita had crossed the bare, wooden boards to where Irena was standing, her scar- let red lips quivering, by the bed. Conchita took her by the arm. "Come, my dear," she smiled, showing several gold fillings. "Let's go downstairs. You ought to see how the other half lives, at least once, in your life."

With Maria objecting and looking very anxious, Irena was pushed through the doorway, down a dingy hallway and into a brightly-lit room with a long bar at one end. At each of the tables, there were several brightly dressed girls, though, as Esteban got closer, he could see that their thick makeup, often more so than his, didn't conceal the fact that most were not young at all.

"Hey, Conchita. What you got there?" A big, fat man in a brown suit and tan shirt stood up and placed fat, pudgy hands on the brunette's bare, upper arms. He looked surprised when the cheaply scented girl pulled away from him, clearly dis- tressed.

"A new girl, Marcos," said Conchita with a secretive smile. Her bulk intervened between the beribboned girl and the portly, perspiring businessman.

"She'd be too much for you, I think," she added tically.

sarcas-

Marcos gave her an un- pleasant sneer. He reached past the brothel owner and touched

the brunette girl's trembling chin. "Just about eighteen, huh, he grunted. "Why do you let these girls wear so much makeup, Conchita? Trying to fool us that they're older and more experienced, huh?" He shook his head. "But it ages 'em to quick. I like 'em with clean skins Conchita, nice and inno- cent, like this one. It helps if they're a bit frightened."

He smiled at the fear in the brunette's face, as she bit at her sticky, scarlet lips. "I'll lay you a hundred for this one right now.'

"American?"

Consuela's

face took on a calculating look. "Ah, no," she said regretfully, not seeing how the brunette paled beneath her rouged cheeks. "Can't do it, Marcos. She's worth a lot more than that to another party. And I did promise her clean."

Marcos pursued them to the bar, arguing with Conchita, and steadily raising his price to two hundred and fifty, much to the amusement of the pain- ted 'girls' at each of the tables. When the nervous brunette sat beside Conchita at the bar, gracefully poised with her high heels barely touching the lower rung of her stool, Marcos grabbed her thigh, massaging her stocking, garter and the hem of her panties even as she fought to push him away.

Even Conchita joined in the laughter as Marcos turned his attention to the brunette's upper body, cupping his hands under her padded breasts and kissing her perfumed neck and shoulders. She struggled intense- ly while guffaws rang out in the crowded room, both the girls and their clients amused by the brunette's efforts to pro- tect herself in what seemed a losing cause.

-41-

It was

thin Maria who

finally came to Irena's aid. A heavy bottle of dark red wine shattered over Marcos' head as the angry woman freed the brunette, sobbing now from the firm, unbreakable grasp of the portly man. Such was the force of the blow that it was hard to tell which rivulets were blood and which were wine as the heavy man slid, moan- ing, to the floor. But that only made the clientele laugh all the harder.

"Come on," hissed Maria. "We must get her back to her room." “What, now?" chortled Conchita. "No, "No, we have to celebrate your victory. Virtue triumphs again! Lopez! Bring us brandy at the end table! The morose bartender nodded and reached for a tray.

""

Conchita took Irena by the hand and pulled her over to- wards the table. She sat the quaking girl down, clasping her wrist firmly. "Just how old are you?" she asked, staring into the young girl's' eyes, noting the smooth skin of 'her' neck and face. "Hey, Maria," her eyes narrowed. "You don't think someone could have pulled a fast one, do you? How do you know that she really is the one she's supposed to be?"

Maria was startled. "It's that wig," she murmured, look- ing about to see that no-one overheard her. "And those ribbons you put about her hair and neck. She looks younger. And with her makeup different, she's bound to look different from the way she did in the truck."

Conchita was only partly placated. "Well?" she snapped at the brunette. "Who are you, truthfully?"

Esteban swallowed hard. His thighs, his hips, his chest and neck, everywhere that Mar- cos had touched, felt bruised and swollen swollen even under the soft touch of his women's clothing. "I am Irena Varga,"