Janet Evanovich: Twelve Sharp

Pickle was getting noticed. People were dotted around the atrium, looking up at him. The elevator opened behind me and a man in a suit stepped out.

'What's going on here?' he wanted to know.

'Don't come near me!' Pickle yelled. 'If you come near me, I'll jump.'

'I'm the hotel manager,' the man said. 'Is there something I can do?'

'Do you have a giant net?' I asked him.

'Just go away,' Pickle said. 'I have big problems. I'm a pervert.'

'You don't look like a pervert,' the manager said.

'I whacked off in the multiplex,' Pickle told him.

'Everybody whacks off in the multiplex,' the manager said. 'I like to go when there's one of those chick flicks playing, and I wear my wife's panties and I-'

'Jeez,' Pickle said. 'Too much information.'

The manager disappeared behind the elevator doors and minutes later reappeared in the lobby. He stood in a small cluster of hotel employees, everyone with their head back, their eyes glued to Pickle.

'You're making a scene,' I said to Pickle.

'Yeah,' Pickle said. 'Pretty soon they're going to start yelling "jump." The human race is lacking. Have you noticed?'

'There are some good people,' I told him.

'Oh yeah? Who's the best person you know? Of all the people you know personally, is there anyone who has a sense of right and wrong and lives by it?'

This was a sticky question because it would have to be Ranger… but I suspected he occasionally killed people. Only bad people, of course, but still…

The crowd in the atrium was growing and now included some uniformed security guys and two Trenton cops. One of the cops was on his two-way, probably calling Morelli to tell him I was involved in yet another disaster. A cameraman and his assistant joined the crowd.

'We're on television,' I told Pickle.

Pickle looked down, waved at the camera, and everyone cheered.

'This is getting too weird,' I told Pickle. 'I'm leaving.'

'You can't leave. If you leave, I'll jump.'

'I don't care, remember?'

'Of course you care. You'll be responsible for my death.'

'Oh no. No, no, no.' I wagged my finger at him. 'That won't work with me. I grew up in the Burg. I was raised Catholic. I know guilt in and out. The first thirty years of my life were ruled by guilt. Not that guilt is an entirely bad thing. But you're not going to lay it on me. Whether you live or die is your choice. I have nothing to do with it. I'm not taking responsibility for the state of the pot roast anymore.'

'Pot roast?'

'Every Friday I'm expected for dinner at my parents' house. Every Friday my mom makes pot roast. If I'm late, the pot roast cooks too long and gets dry, and it's all my fault.'

'And?'

'And it's not my fault!'

'Of course it's your fault. You were late. They were nice enough to make a pot roast for you. Then they were nice enough to hold dinner for you even though it meant ruining the pot roast. Boy, you should learn some manners.'

My cell phone rang again. It was my Grandma Mazur. She lives with my mom and dad. She moved in when Grandpa Mazur sailed off in a heaven-bound gravy boat.

'You're on television,' she said. 'I was trying to find Judge Judy, and you popped up. They said you were breaking news. Are you trying to rescue that guy on the railing, or are you trying to get him to jump?'

'In the beginning I was trying to rescue him,' I said. 'But I'm starting to change my mind.'

'I gotta go now,' Grandma said. 'I gotta call Ruth Biablocki and tell her you're on television. She's always going on about her granddaughter and how she's got that good job at the bank. Well let's see her top this one. Her granddaughter don't get on television!'

'What are you so depressed about that you want to jump off this balcony?' I asked Pickle. 'Jumping to your death is pretty severe.'

'My life sucks! My wife left me and took everything, including my clothes and my dog. I got fired from my job and had to go to work in a shoe store. I have no money, so I had to move back home and live with my mother. And I got caught whacking off in a multiplex. Could it possibly get any worse?'

'You have your health.'

'I think I'm getting a cold. I have a huge oozing cold sore!'

My phone rang again.

'Cupcake,' Morelli said. 'I don't like finding you in a hotel with another guy.'

I looked down and saw Morelli standing next to Lula.

'He's a jumper,' I told Morelli.

'Yeah,' Morelli said. 'I can see that. What's the story?'

'He got caught whacking off in the multiplex and doesn't want to go to jail.'

'He won't get a lot of jail time for that,' Morelli said. 'Maybe a couple weekends of community service. It's not a big deal. Everyone whacks off in the multiplex.'

I relayed the message to Pickle.

'It's not just jail,' Pickle said. 'It's me. I'm a loser.'

Morelli was still on the phone. 'Now what?'

'He's a loser.'

'You're on your own with that one,' Morelli said. 'Are you going to need help with this?'

'Maybe you need… vitamins,' I said to Pickle.

Pickle looked at me. Hopeful. 'Do you think that could be it?'

'Yeah. If you get off the railing we could go to the health food store and get some.'

'You're just saying that to get me off the railing.'

'True. When you get off the railing the police will probably arrest you for being a nut. You'll have to go to the station and wait for Vinnie to get there to bond you out again.'

'I can't afford to get bonded out again. I just walked off my job. I'm probably unemployed.'

'Oh for the love of everything holy.' I peeked at my watch. I didn't have time for this. I had other fish to fry.

'How about this. We need someone to do filing at the bonds office. Maybe I can get Vinnie to hire you so you can work off the fee to get bonded out.'

'Really? You'd do that for me?'

Morelli was still listening in. 'Okay, so far we've promised him community service, vitamins, and a job. The only thing left that he could possibly want is gorilla sex. And if you promise that to him I'm not going to be happy.'

I disconnected Morelli and put the phone back into my pocket.

'About the job,' Pickle said. 'Vinnie wouldn't mind that I'm a… you know, pervert?'

That was pretty funny. Vinnie minding that Pickle whacked off at the multiplex. 'It's probably the only thing you have going for you,' I told Pickle.

'Okay,' he said. 'But you're going to have to help me get off this railing. I'm terrified to move.'

I grabbed the back of his shirt and hauled him off the railing, and we both collapsed into a heap on the floor. The crowd reaction was mixed. Some cheers and some boos. We got to our feet, and I cuffed his hands behind his back and led him to the elevator.

Morelli was waiting for me when the doors opened at the atrium level. He stepped in with two uniforms, and we all rode one floor down to the parking garage where a cruiser was idling. I got Pickle into the back seat and promised to get him rebonded.

'And the vitamins,' Pickle said. 'Don't forget the vitamins.'

'Sure.'

The cruiser took off, and I turned to Morelli. He was standing thumbs hooked into his jeans pockets, and he was smiling at me. Morelli is six feet tall and is all lean planes and angles and hard muscle. His complexion is Mediterranean. His hair is almost black and curls against his neck. His brown eyes are liquid chocolate when he's aroused.

'What?' I asked Morelli.

'Did you make any more promises after you hung up on me?'

'None you want to know about.'

The smile widened. 'Bob misses you. He hasn't seen you in a couple days.'

Bob is Morelli's big orange dog. And this is Morelli's ploy when he wants me to do a sleepover. Not that he needs a ploy.