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part 1 of the story

Strip Mall

Bill Tope

(This was originally published in “Fiction on the Web.”)

i

    Molly sat astride the hot air grate in the breezeway at the strip mall where she worked nights, from 11 to 3. She was responsible for sweeping the sidewalks and policing the area of debris, as well as for emptying the half dozen or so trash receptacles. She found it an easy yet thankless job, but the best she could do, for now. Her boss, Derek, would arrive in a few minutes with the equipment—a push broom, a dustpan at the end of a wooden handle, and a long-handled whisk broom, as well as a half dozen trash bags. He always counted out the bags, concerned lest she pilfer one.
    From where she sat upon the metal grate, Molly watched her frozen breaths blossom and then dissipate in the soft but cold night breeze. She was freezing. If it was like this in November, what would it be like in the latter part of January? she wondered. She involuntarily shivered at the prospect of worse weather. Looking up, she saw the lights of an approaching vehicle. It was Derek’s van, big and yellow and garish. Molly struggled to her feet, dusted off the debris clinging to her faded jeans. She heard his heavy footsteps clomping her way. “Here you go,” he said. She glanced at what he’d brought, looked up at him.
    “You didn’t bring any bags,” she pointed out . He said, “I want you to just empty the filled bags directly into the dumpster tonight.” She made a face. That meant that Molly would have to dig her hands into that mess; no telling what she’d find there.
    “Is there a problem?” he asked importantly. She shook her head. He hovered over her a moment longer, then satisfied, disappeared back into the night. What a spawn, she thought disgustedly. He was cutting back on trash bags so that he could pocket the difference. The same way he paid her just four dollars per hour, then collected the difference between the twelve bucks an hour allotted by the company and what he paid her. But what could she do? she thought bleakly. She was a runaway, just fifteen, and her opportunities to earn money were stark indeed, save for selling her ass. And Derek had offered her that chance too, but she’d set him straight her first night. He took no for an answer, though, to her initial surprise. But now she understood the economics of his scam, how the game worked. She was more valuable to him working for a pittance while he collected the lion’s share of her rightful salary, the same way he reputedly did with a dozen other workers in strip malls and bank buildings and parking lots throughout the city. Derek was known on the streets for utilizing only runaways for his business. He would shit if he thought his scheme was widely known.
    Molly did a little arithmetic in her head—she was always good at math back in school—and calculated that Derek collected more than four hundred bucks a night from poor, desperate girls like herself, who couldn’t afford to make a fuss. And he paid no taxes on that plunder, as well. No wonder he could afford a new van.
    Molly had been around some. She knew that every scam eventually came apart because the con became too greedy—holding back on bags, for Christ’s sake. Next he’d expect her to pick up cigarette butts with her fingers! She was due to be paid tonight, which was only a small joy. She almost retched each time he laid the sixteen dollars in her dirty, scuffed hands and realized how badly he was screwing her. He paid off every morning, so that Molly and the others came back each night. Sixteen bucks was scarcely enough to survive on; but Molly had done with less. She ate mostly fatty, high-calorie food she got from the discount groceries; she couldn’t even afford fast food on what she earned. And should she unexpectedly require anything extra, then all bets were off. She got her feminine supplies at the Planned Parenthood office, for free. She’d gotten a deep gash on her arm one time while feeding trash into the dumpster and was able to seek out medical attention at the Free Clinic; thank God!
    Molly gathered her things together, set out policing the parking lot with the dustpan and broom. What a lot of slobs, she thought crossly. She had believed that everyone had quit smoking, but to see the number of butts she knew it wasn’t so. She had quit months ago, when it became just too expensive. Ten dollars for a pack! She could either eat or smoke and she chose eating. She made her way past the Walgreens and the auto parts store and the Pizza Place (sometimes one of the cooks took pity on her and gave her an extra pie) and arrived finally at the Flamingo, the bar at the end of the strip. This was Molly’s least favorite part of the mall because men came reeling out of the bar and drunkenly accosted her, wanting a little action.
    Normally she slipped past them or tactfully fended off their amorous pursuits, but one time a guy had tried to get her into his car for a BJ and she’d had to kick him in the balls in order to dissuade him. He had drunkenly vowed to enlist the assistance of a couple of other guys and make her come across, but she said she’d just bite it off. He’d blinked at her, surprised but convinced. She had gotten a rep as a little hellion who meant business and wasn’t to be messed with. Which suit her right down to the ground. She knew she wasn’t pretty, even in the best of times, and the men told her as much. But Molly knew the dance wasn’t about being pretty, it was about power and control. They would get off if only they could humiliate her.
    She swept up the cigarette butts—they were always heaviest here—and scooped an empty liquor bottle into the dustpan and moved swiftly on. The door to the tavern swung open and another drunk staggered out; she stepped into the shadows at the side of the building and watched. The man fell into his car, practically unconscious on his feet, then slid behind the steering wheel. He just sat there, moving not a muscle. Curious, she approached the open car and peeped inside. He was breathing loudly; well, she thought, he’s not dead. Not yet, anyway, but when he gets out on the road, anything could happen. She had seen cops lingering nearby when she first began this job, two months before, but not recently. The bar had probably paid them off, she thought. The man stirred and Molly jumped.
    Suddenly he reached out and seized her round the wrist. She tried to break free but he was too strong.
    “What’re you doing?” he growled. Again she tried to escape his clutches, but to no avail. “What’s you want?” he asked her. “Why you hangin’ around, tryin’ to rob me?” The pressure on her wrist increased. Molly shook her head, which he couldn’t see in the darkness. “Speak,” he snarled, “or I’ll break your damn arm.”
    “I was just waiting for you to pay me,” she stammered, shaking nervously.
    “Pay you for what?”
    “Th...the blowjob,” she managed to get out. The pressure on her arm eased a bit.
    “What’s you talkin’ about, Kid?” he asked, confused.
    “Thirty minutes ago you said you’d give me twenty dollars for a blow job,” she said, fleshing out her story some.
    “Did you do it?” he inquired further, still baffled.
    “Just finished,” she replied. “I been trying to wake you up to collect for the past twenty minutes.” He seemed to turn this over in his mind. “What’s the matter?” she asked, incredulously. “Don’t you even remember?” He cleared his throat.
    “Yeah, of course I remember,” he lied unconvincingly and reached for his wallet.
    “You said I’d get a bonus if I could get you off,” Molly added. With a grunt the man extracted two twenties from his billfold and laid them across Molly’s palm.
    “Nice job, Kid,” he muttered, then rolled over and went to sleep. Clutching the money in her fist, Molly returned to work.
    Later, after midnight, Molly walked along the sidewalk at the rear of the strip mall, near the back of the Pizza Place. With any luck, Lea would be on duty and give her a pie that someone had ordered and not picked up. She wanted to avoid the shift supervisor, Dudley, if she could. What was it that made people in charge of other people such wieners? she wondered for the hundreth time. The back door to the parlor was open, the yellow light spilling into the relative darkness behind the shopping center. Molly spotted her friend.
    “Lea,” she said, smiling. Lea was perhaps the prettiest girl that Molly had ever known. She was still a regular person, though.
    “Lo’, Molly,” the other girl greeted her. “You hungry, Girl?” asked Lea. Molly placed her hand on her empty stomach for emphasis.
    “I haven’t eaten all day,” she replied, which was the truth. Lea turned up a box containing a medium pizza, offered it to Molly.
    “Hey!” Dudley’s ugly voice boomed out. Molly jumped a little; he always freaked her out some. When he gets a little older, she thought, he’ll join the drunks at the Flamingo. She shook her head.
    “Are you back begging?” he questioned her rudely. Lea rolled her eyes.
    “We’re just gonna throw it out, Dudley,” she said reasonably.
    “This ain’t the Salvation Army,” he pointed out. “Why don’t you get on Food Stamps? Then you can buy a pie like a normal human being.”
    “What would you know about normal humans?” Molly wanted to know. Lea covered her mouth with her hand as she laughed out loud.
    “Listen,” he said, “I made that pie myself and I think it ought to be worth a little pussy!”
    “I agree,” said Molly. “They probably taste the same, too!”
    “Hey!” he shouted, but he was up to his elbows in pizza dough.
    “Here, beat it, Molly,” urged Lea, pressing the box upon her. “Come back tomorrow night, old sourpuss isn’t working then.” Molly smiled her thanks and ran off into the dark witth the pizza in hand.
    After she’d devoured what she could of the pie—she couldn’t abide anchovies—Molly was working at the far corner of the parking lot, sweeping away, when she was accosted by a policeman. He was standing outside his cruiser, holding a large flashlight on his shoulder, directing its rays at Molly.
    “Come here, Miss,” instructed the cop coldly, aiming the light in her face. She flinched, put up her hand to block the light. But she obediently stepped closer.
    “I want to talk to you,” he intoned threateningly. “I’ve gotten reports of young women selling drugs and sex and....” he grinned lewdly. “Do you know anything about that?” She shook her head no. She gazed at him, he was handsome, but in a hard way. He reminded Molly of her stepfather. She felt a shiver down her spine that had nothing to do with the weather.
    “What’s wrong?” he asked, “can’t you speak?” She said nothing. She had learned from hard experience that the less you said to the cops, the better off you were.
    “What’re you doing here?” he asked obtusely. Couldn’t he see her dustpan and broom? “Who do you work for?” he persisted. She spoke at last.
    “Derek.” This seemed to satisfy the cop. He nodded, withdrew back to his vehicle. So, thought Molly, the cops were in on it too. Derek wasn’t doing so well as she’d thought; he had to pay off the worker at the employment office, the cops, and God knew who else. Everyone got a share; the only common thread was that everyone’s share came out of her pay. She blew out air, continued sweeping.
    It was nearly end of shift—3 a.m.—when Molly spotted two cars sitting side by side at the edge of the strip mall, facing opposite directions and with their driver’s side windows down. She couldn’t see any activity until the vehicle facing away from her blazed with illumination from the brake lights. The driver had accidentally stepped on the brake pedal, she guessed. The light quickly snuffed out. She stared for some time until she recognized that she too could be seen. She was standing under one of the few light poles in the parking lot that actually had a working fixture and suddenly she felt vulnerable. Perhaps she had been witnessing something that she shouldn’t see. Shit. She took herself off, heading again for the back of the complex.
    As she hurried away she could hear a motor start up. Not daring to look back, she rushed to safety. She didn’t get far, however, before a car—the police car!—caught up with her, swept in front of her, squealed to a stop. The door swung open and out stepped the same cop who had confronted her before. He approached her, and he wasn’t smiling. In fact her looked very put out.
    “What’re you still doing here?” he asked gruffly. Once again she chose to remain silent. Taking two giant steps he was upon her and swinging her by the shoulder, turned her around and fastened a twist tie tightly round her wrists. “Why are you spying on me?” he demanded, nerves cracking his voice. Molly couldn’t stand to be confined in any manner and began to hyperventilate. “Answer me, you little shit, or I’ll....” Out of nowhere came a voice, loud and irritable,
    “What are you doing, Muncie, arresting one of my workers?” Derek managed to insert a little humor into the inquiry. Molly never thought she’d be so glad to see her boss.
    “She’s still around,” groused Muncie. “I thought they cleared out by 3 a.m.?”
    “Molly’s just doing a thorough job, Officer,” replied Derek. “Where’s you gear, Molly?” She inclined her head at the pile and he said, “Alright, beat it, I’ll take it from here.”
    Muncie, meanwhile, had stepped up to free Molly from her shackles. Shaking her wrists, she hurried off. What was that all about, she wondered. And she thought, her employer had more going on that just babysitting homeless runaways.
    Molly was not in fact homeless; only her home wasn’t a conventional abode with four walls, a roof and a floor. She lived in a white, 1953 Studebaker that the owner stored in a remote, screened-in carport. He kept it in the hopes of restoring it one day, she figured, but in the two months she’d lived there he’d made no such effort. She gained access by virtue of the fact that the driver’s side door had no lock.
    As she approached home, she was brought up short. There was a new lock in place; she tried the door and as she’d feared, it was locked up tight. She desperately tried the other door—locked up tighter than a drum.
    “Shit!” Suddenly there was another flashlight blazing down upon her. She started to flee but there was no where to run and she was so tired. So she stood her ground.
    “You!” said the voice of an old man. Molly sighed with exhaustion; it had been a hell of a night. “I seen you hangin’ round before,” the elderly voice went on, “but I wasn’t sure it was you that was holed up in Doreen.” Molly blinked. Doreen? What the....
    “Don’t ask me why I named her...” She shook her head.
    “I wasn’t going to ask you,” she assured him.
    “Why you livin’ in Dor—my car?” Well, thought Molly, at least he hasn’t call the cops—yet. “Don’t you got no place else to live?” he asked with what sounded like more than mere curiosity. “What are you,” he asked “a runaway?” She nodded. Busted.
    “Where you from? An’ what’s your name?” he asked next. Molly was too tired and too weak from chronic hunger to lie anymore.
    “St. Louis,” she answered. “And Molly—my name’s Molly.”
    “Please to meet ya’ Molly; I’m Arthur. Youse a long way from home,” he observed. She only yawned. She really was tired.
    “Got any plans?” he kept on. She yawned again. “I see I’m cuttin’ into your beauty sleep.” Then he asked, “Do you wanna go home?’ The one thing that no one had asked her before in the whole long two months she’d been on the lam. She didn’t answer right away.
    “I’ll buy your bus fare home, but I won’t give you the money; I’ll purchase the ticket and see you off.” He looked to her for an answer. What was his angle? she wondered. Everyone she’d met had an angle, Derek, Dudley, the cops, even her pizza pal Lea sometimes seemed she only wanted for Molly to get her boss’s goat. But then, she thought, she herself had an angle—to stay away from her stepfather, no matter what it took.
    “I...I don’t want to go home.” He looked at his shoes. “But thank you for offering,” she told him. He looked up, smiled kindly. Then curiosity got the better of her:
    “Why did you offer?” The man’s blue eyes, visible in the street lamp, took on a troubled aspect. He seemed to be debating with himself. At last he spoke.
    “My grandaughter run away when she was jus’ thirteen, lived on the streets for near a month, up in Chicago.” He paused in his narrative for a moment. “She was treated bad, real bad. She was runnin’ from her dad, who was abusin’ her.” His eyes grew hard. “That man ain’t never gonna bother no one again, I can tell you that.” Molly wondered what that meant. What had this old man done? She couldn’t help herself:
    “Did your grandaughter come back home?” His face went blank.
    “Uh huh,” was all he said. He started to return to the house when he turned back and held his hand out to the teenager. In the hand was a silver key.
    “Take it,” he said, “and stay there at least while the weather permits. But lock her up durin’ the day,” he cautioned. “Somebody done stole the Philco radio out of her. He shook his head in annoyance. Then he turned on his heel and walked back the way he’d come. Molly watched him go, then eagerly tried the key and voila, it worked!

ii

    After work the next morning, Molly approached the Studebaker and tried the door. Locked! Then she remembered Arthur and the key she had. She had forgotten to lock it herself last night. He must have done it. Fishing around in her pocket for the key, she extracted it and slipped it into the lock. It worked! So it wasn’t a dream. She looked up at the light in the alley back of the car and saw a fine must hovering. She was glad she had a way to get out of the weather. Pulling the collar of her jacket up round her neck, she climbed into the vehicle.
    Molly lay across the front seat of the Studebaker, her feet under the steering wheel, dreaming really awful nightmares. She was back home and her family was surrounding her, only their heads and especially their eyes, were gigantic. Sprawled on the bench seat of the car, she made ugly faces and her body writhed restlessly. Then in the dream she heard a pounding on the roof of the family home and waited helplessly for disaster to befall her. Suddenly her eyes flickered; she was waking up. But the pounding continued relentlessly. Her eyes opened wide and she stared at the driver’s side window. There she found a massive fist, banging on the glass. A gold band on the ring finger made a clicking sound where it touched the glass. And attached to that first was a policemen, clad in a blue uniform and holding his other hand provocatively on his weapon. He was speaking:
    “Wake up. Open this door!” Moving groggily, Molly complied with the order and the cop swept open the door. “Let’s see your hands,” he told her. “Grab the steering wheel.” Molly’s experience with cops—all of it bad—moved her to obey. The cop looked her over closely, then told her to get out of the car. Again she complied without a word. “What are you doing in Mr. Cooper’s car?” demanded the cop. Once more she said nothing, which pissed off the cop, as she knew it would. “Turn around, face the car!” This again. He frisked her but unlike most police he didn’t cop a cheap feel. “Does Mr. Cooper know you’re camping out in his Studebaker?” he asked. She nodded her head.
    “C’mon, I’m going to check out your story,” and with a hand on her arm he led her back to Arthur’s home. Molly wondered what time it was. The cop knocked respectfully on the door and soon Arthur materialized. He opened the door.
    “What’s this?” asked Arthur.
    “I found this woman asleep in your Studebaker, Mr. Cooper.” If he was expecting a sharp reaction, the cop was disappointed. Arthur gazed placidly at the teen, just a hint of a smile upon his lips.
    “Of course you found her,” said Arthur. “This is my granddaughter, Molly.” Molly’s head snapped up in surprise. “She likes sleepin’ in my old car,” he explained. “Why don’t you let her get back to sleep and I’ll fill you in.” Yeah, thought Molly, and maybe someone could fill her in, too. The policeman removed his hand from Molly’s arm and she vanished back toward the rear of the property.
    When she was safely out of earshot, Arthur continued: “Molly’s mother died recently.”
    “Oh no, not Connie,” said the cop regretfully. Arthur shook his head.
    “No, Connie’s okay. It was my other daughter, Marilyn,” he went on, lying verbosely. He hadn’t realized before that he had such a knack for it. “I jus’ got back from...uh...New Jersey, and brought Molly with me. She hasn’t got no one else.” Concern filled the officer’s eyes. He said,
    “Will she be in school soon?” Damn. Arthur hadn’t thought that far ahead.
    “After the Thanksgivin’ Holiday,” he replied, thinking fast. “Thanks for your concern, Bob.”
    “That’s alright, Mr. Cooper, just doing my job. When I saw her asleep in the car, I....”
    “Perfectly un’nerstandable,” said Arthur. “And you’re a good cop, Bob,” he added. Bob’s chest expanded with pride, and he saluted and withdrew. As the cop walked back to his car in the alley, Arthur blew out a breath.
    The next morning, when she awoke and exited the car—with no surprises this time—Molly found a package on the roof of the car. She picked it up. It was warm. Pushing aside a paper towel, she found a large cinnamon roll, steaming in the cold morning air. She glanced back toward the house, then took a tentative nibble. It was good! In seconds she had devoured it. Suddenly a tiny piece of paper fluttered out of the paper towel to the ground. Molly picked it up and read: “If you ever wake up, come on in for breakfast. Door is open.” It was unsigned.

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