Tales of the City 02 - More Tales of the City by Armistead Maupin Page B

crashed after breakfast at the Blue Moon Lodge. The broiling midday sun had already forced her to kick off the covers when Bobbi knocked on the door of her cinder-block cubicle.
    “Knock, knock,” she said.
    Mona groaned silently. How long would she be able to endure the puppy love of this sugar-coated tart?
    “Hi Judy. Mother Mucca asked me to show you how the phones work.”
    Arrggh. The phones. This was a job, wasn’t it? She was paying her way on this acidless trip. Dragging herself into a semi-upright position, she leaned against the headboard and rubbed her eyes. “Three minutes, O.K.?”
    She staggered into the tiny bathroom and splashed water on her face. It would only be for a week, she reassured herself, and prostitution was legal in Nevada. Besides, if she ever decided to take up copywriting again, this gig would look stunning on a résumé.
    Two large metal hooks in the ceiling caught her eye as she left the bathroom.
    “What’s that for?” she asked Bobbi.
    “What?”
    “Those hooks.”
    “Oh. This used to be Tanya’s room.”
    Gotcha. Thanks a helluva lot. “Tanya did something with hooks?”
    Bobbi giggled, as if Mona were a new kid on the block who didn’t know the first thing about hopscotch. “That’s where she hung the swing.”
    Should I ask about that? thought Mona. Yes. I’m a receptionist in a whorehouse. I should know about swings. “The swing was part of … her routine?”
    Bobbi nodded. “Water sports. She was real famous for it.”
    “You mean …? I don’t get it.”
    “Oh, silly,” chirped Bobbi. “She tinkled on them from up there. While she was swinging, see?”
    “I think I saw her on The Gong Show once.”
    “Huh?”
    “Nothing. What happened to her, anyway?”
    “Tanya? She switched to a house in Elko.”
    “Was that good?”
    Bobbi shrugged. “For her, I guess. Mother Mucca was plenty pissed. But Tanya’ll be back, probably. There aren’t that many good houses in these parts. Elko, Winnemucca, Wells … that’s about it.”
    Mona suppressed a smirk. This dippy child who said tinkled when she meant pissed and pissed when she meant angry could still distinguish between a respectable and an unrespectable whorehouse. “Where are the crummy ones?” Mona asked.
    Bobbi pursed her lips thoughtfully, obviously delighted with her role as the Duncan Hines of whorehouses. “Oh … Mina, I guess, and Eureka and Battle Mountain. Battle Mountain is definitely the pits. When a girl hits that circuit … well, she might as well hang it up.”
    Bobbi’s income, Mona learned, was about three hundred dollars a week. That was after Mother Mucca had taken her cut and Bobbi had paid her room and board.
    All of the girls at the Blue Moon Lodge were required to work three weeks straight before taking a week off. The state saw to it that they were issued a work permit, fingerprinted, photographed and examined by a doctor prior to setting up shop—or swings.
    The most profitable season, according to Bobbi, was summer, when transcontinental traffic on Interstate 80 was heavier, and a period between mid-September and mid-October, when deer hunters invaded the area.
    In accordance with the Municipal Code of Winnemucca, the girls of the Blue Moon Lodge took turns in exercising their privilege to go into town for shopping, movies and medical attention.
    There was also a law that forbade a woman from working in a Winnemucca brothel if a member of her family resided in the county.
    “C’mon,” bubbled Bobbi, as soon as Mona pulled herself together. “I wanna show you something neat.”
    Mona braced herself for the abomination. A rubber room, perhaps? A mirrored ceiling? A sex-crazed donkey? A crotch-less Naugahyde wet suit by Frederick’s of Hollywood?
    Bobbie led the way out of the cubicle into the sunshine. The warm desert air made Mona acutely aware of the original purpose of her escape from San Francisco. Communion with Nature. Harmony with the Elements.
    But no … oh, no. That