Brothel (27 page)

The ruling judge in the case, U.S. District Judge Howard McKibben, delayed the forfeiture for thirty days to give employees time to relocate. Unfortunately, the delay only gave
members of the brothel false hope. Behind Mustang’s eight-foot wrought-iron fences, women and staff were insulated from the local scuttlebutt save for what they saw on the nightly news, read in the newspaper, or heard from their clients. Did defense attorneys really have new “explosive” evidence that could prompt the judge to reverse the verdict? Was it true that during deliberations, one of the jurors had been pushed up against a wall by another and told, “If you don’t vote to convict, God’s going to get you”? The brothel’s mood oscillated between despair and optimism.

George had already received more than three dozen phone calls from people interested in buying Mustang Ranch, but the government’s final plans for the brothel were as yet undetermined. For now, it would keep up the seized property until the court issued a final order of forfeiture, which in turn would follow consideration of all monetary claims against the property and appeals by defendants. It was rumored that Conforte had already put the squeeze on his nephew David Burgess, owner of the Old Bridge Ranch, to hand over his brothel or else Conforte would force the county commissioners to outlaw prostitution in Storey County altogether. True to his egotistical character, Conforte allegedly felt entitled to reclaim what once was his—or at least, what he thought he deserved to have as the father of legalized prostitution in Storey County.

Brothel opponents like John Reese hoped the county might use this opportunity to outlaw brothels altogether, though none of the three commissioners had shown much enthusiasm for that. But George was worried. “The legislature’s support is
not necessarily support of the industry as much as it’s support of the mystique of Mustang Ranch,” he explained to me on the phone. “In other words, I don’t think the legislators give a hoot or a holler about Billie’s Day and Night.” (Billie’s was a hole-in-the-wall brothel in southern Nevada with no more than three prostitutes at a time, run by a toothless seventy-eight-year-old madam named Opal Radcliffe.) Because Mustang subsidized most of his lobbying budget, George anticipated feeling crippled, depleted of ammunition to defend the industry from its opponents. “How the heck am I going to support this industry if I don’t have any bullets in my gun?”

I hadn’t visited Mustang for almost a year, and I took the next plane to Reno for what I assumed would be a final good-bye. No one seemed surprised when I rang the doorbell twice and appeared suddenly in Mustang #1’s parlor. The women and staff greeted me with hugs and warm smiles. I was pleased and surprised to see many familiar faces; George had mentioned over the telephone that a handful of women left immediately after the verdict, not wanting to remain in limbo for another thirty days. But practically everyone I knew was still there: Baby, Brittany, Tanya, Linda, Donna, Eva, and Mercedes.

George believed some of the women “sincerely and naïvely thought God was going to split the seas, that Moses was going to walk across dry land, and that there was going to be a miracle.” When I asked a prostitute named Josie where she planned to relocate, she chastised me for bringing such “negative energy” into the brothel. Mustang was going to survive, she said;
we just needed to believe and have faith. I wanted to believe her, but I hesitated to put too much trust in her spiritual insights. On a previous visit, Josie had told me about the prophetic voices that spoke to her and divulged that Hillary Clinton would soon come out as a lesbian, while Bill would be president for a
third
term.

Most of the working girls still at Mustang felt a strong sense of obligation to the brothel. “I want to make sure the ship’s down before I desert it,” said Linda. Even the normally tough Tanya showed her emotions. “It’s sad leaving people that I know so well,” she said. “It’s like one big home or family. My body, her body, and a lot of other girls’ bodies built this business back up over the last nine years to what it is. Now it’s like it’s being kicked apart again.”

Even relative newcomers like Eva, the woman I’d accompanied when she got licensed several years earlier, expressed similar feelings. “I’m sad because these are all my sisters,” she said, weepy and red-eyed. “I’m definitely depressed. I’ve never had sisterhood like this. They love you no matter what you do—it’s unconditional love. Sure, we all fight. We get into our little tiffs and irritate each other, but that’s how sisters are. Now I’m losing my sisters and I feel like I’m moving away from home.”

While everyone worried about losing their jobs, genuine concern for one another prevailed. No one knew who had it worse. Tanya told me she felt more for the employees who had worked at Mustang for years. What sort of conventional work was someone like Blanche, in her mid-fifties with almost two decades of floor maid experience, qualified for? It was unlikely
that Nevada’s remaining brothels could absorb Mustang’s seventy-five staff members. Most of the employees had families in nearby Reno and Sparks and had no desire to relocate. Even jobs with transferrable skills, like bartending, explained Brian, would be hard to get with Mustang—a “whorehouse” to the outside world—on your résumé.

Remarkably, in spite of everyone’s anxiety, I was hard-pressed to find much hostility directed at Joe Conforte. Most women were more incensed that the IRS had wasted taxpayers’ money all these years hunting down a seventy-three-year-old man. To an outsider, though, it seemed all too obvious that Conforte hadn’t shown the same loyalty. His criminal activities over the years had hurt innocent people, and by refusing to come home, he had sacrificed others, including a longtime associate, sixty-two-year-old Shirley Colletti. A former Mustang manager and Storey County commissioner, Colletti had been convicted along with the A.G.E. companies of conspiring to conceal Conforte’s ownership of Mustang and illegally transferring millions of dollars to him. Judge McKibben ordered Colletti to forfeit $220,000 in cash and sentenced her to almost four years in federal prison. Had Conforte turned himself in, it’s unlikely the government would have bothered picking on underlings like her.

Even now Conforte persisted in baiting the government; he insisted that George place an advertisement for him in the
Reno Gazette-Journal
that read, “A man can be destroyed but he will not be defeated. Joe Conforte.”

Business hadn’t been the same since the verdict. The doorbell rang frequently, but most of the men gravitated to the bar
and seemed content to gape. But if sex wasn’t selling, Mustang souvenirs were. Men bought T-shirts, key chains, shot glasses, bumper stickers, and postcards by the handful.

But the women were too distracted to care. They sat huddled together around the parlor whispering about their career options and making telephone calls to other brothels to set up interviews. Most Mustang prostitutes wanted to remain in northern Nevada, so they deliberated between moving to neighboring Old Bridge Ranch or to one of Lyon County’s four brothels.

In the first weeks after the verdict, many of the women acted out, blowing off house rules, ignoring calls to line up, giving the floor maids grief, and openly using drugs. Money-stashing was rampant, as women rationalized they were only stealing from the government. “What are they going to do, fire me?” women asked.

By the last week, however, the frenzy had given way to somber resignation. Louis, the women’s favorite cook, who was not scheduled to work, had opted to come in anyway. All the vendors came by to pay their final respects, among them Ann Marie, Mustang’s Avon representative for over twenty-six years, who earned her living selling lipsticks, fragrances, and bubble bath exclusively to Mustang prostitutes.

Leo showed up and began unloading his usual store of bodysuits, slip dresses, and lingerie as if it were any other Saturday. I couldn’t imagine who he thought would be interested at a time like this, but he was philosophical: “You think they’re going to go home and sit and cry since this place is closing? By Monday or Tuesday, they’ll be working someplace
else.” Meanwhile, Leo had his own troubles. A.G.E. companies had been ordered to forfeit not only Mustang Ranch and $40 million cash, but also all A.G.E.-owned real estate. Lockwood Mobile Home Park residents like Leo, many of whom were fixed-income retirees, risked losing their now $90-a-month homes.

Like Leo, the women shifted into work mode for the final weekend. Anticipating that men would flock to the brothel for one last hurrah, the women put on their nicest outfits. As they’d expected, the doorbell rang constantly from seven
P.M
. on, and the bar filled with paying customers. Men pulled out wads of bills, splurging one last time. For the first time all week, I saw genuine smiles come over the women’s faces. The parlor hummed as women crisscrossed the deep red carpet, leading men to their bedrooms and returning alone to deposit money with the cashier. By eleven
P.M.
, the bar was so busy that the floor maid decided to forgo lineups altogether. At one point, about a hundred men were standing shoulder to shoulder in the bar waiting for prostitutes to free up.

Most of these men were Mustang regulars, like Ernie, an eighty-year-old known for his tendency to overdrink and then conk out on a parlor sofa. He came in Saturday night wearing a flamingo pink T-shirt that read
I
HOOKERS
—a gift he’d received from Lara, his favorite Mustang prostitute. As usual, he told a few crude jokes, then toppled over on a couch, where he slept for over an hour. When he awoke, Lara smoothly and tenderly guided him back to her room. I wondered where this old man would turn for sex and companionship now.

When Stewart and Roger sauntered in, promptly at eight,
they stood stupefied at the sight of so many other men. They had spent the previous weeks trying to get used to neighboring Old Bridge Ranch, but they assumed that as faithful regulars they would have their pickings of Mustang prostitutes for one last go-round. Both had hopes of using up their remaining Mustang passes. Even several CyberWhoreMongers showed up.

Not all visitors were greeted enthusiastically on this final Saturday night. The rival brothel owner Dennis Hof paraded into Mustang to gloat over the demise of his competition. The floor maid on duty scowled when she saw him stroll through the door accompanied by an entourage of men, including Ron Jeremy, a porn star who was involved in Hof’s X-rated film business. “I don’t think they should have been allowed in here,” the floor maid later told me. “I felt like I was a dying horse and they were the vultures swarming over me.”

Hof had come to savor his triumph. “With Mustang Ranch closing, we’re the heir apparent,” Dennis had boasted to reporters. “We’re going to take over where Mustang left off, except in a classy manner.” He went on to say that his manager had already interviewed forty-five Mustang prostitutes but in the end only hired five. “Only the best,” he said. “We’re going to be classier than the Mustang ever was.” All that night, he sidled up to prostitutes to introduce himself and offer his electric pink business card. His agenda was excruciatingly obvious—for all his talk of selectivity, he was here to scout the girls.

Although business boomed into the wee hours of the
morning, by noon Sunday all thought was on clearing out. Despite some talk about sticking it out to the bitter end and forming a human chain around the brothel to fend off the IRS, most women had decided to leave before the media animals descended. Ryder trucks and U-Hauls pulled into the parking lot, where women worked together to load their belongings—television sets, comforters, lamps, and garbage bags stuffed with clothes. Baby managed to persuade Philip, her devoted regular, to orchestrate her move. He pulled up in a U-Haul early in the morning and spent all day moving Baby’s possessions with tremendous delicacy into the truck. Meanwhile—she was among a handful of women still working—Baby used the bedroom next door to hers to party with customers. Philip lurked outside the door, trying to eavesdrop, every time he came to retrieve a new load.

As if it were the morning of the last day of summer camp, women dashed around exchanging addresses and snapping photos with their disposable cameras. Some women hugged and kissed good-bye; others slipped out quietly.

By late afternoon, most of the women had left. Twenty-one remained, only three or four of whom were actually working the floor, while the rest either packed or slept. The cook at Mustang #2 had left without warning, so the working girls there had no warm dinner. By evening, management decided to shut down the annex and send the girls over to #1. As Louis closed down the kitchen at #1 for the night, I heard him muttering to himself how empty he felt inside, “like a part of me is going away.” Mustang felt dead.

At around ten on Monday morning, August 9, 1999, three federal agents appeared to pick up the last bank deposit from the weekend. Since the verdict, the U.S. Customs Agency had been handling Mustang’s books, counting all the money and signing all the checks. Although the brothel wasn’t to be handed over until 5:01
P.M.
, Bob Del Carlo, A.G.E.’s new president, who had been the Storey County sheriff for twenty-eight years, decided to close it down after the pickup. The rest of the afternoon was to be devoted to housecleaning. This made sense to brothel management, since the money would be going straight into the hands of the U.S. government anyway, and there were only a few women still interested in turning tricks. Money from Mustang’s last official customer was booked at 10:20
A.M
.