Stanley Hastings has a client - a real-life, money-paying client. That's the good news. The bad news is that this client might be the most frustrating thing to come along in years. "I'm being set up," is all that six-foot-six Cranston Pritchert says to Stanley when he first darkens Stanley's doorway. Why is the investment firm partner being set up? How? By whom? Cranston can't seem to answer even the simplest of questions. Instead, he sends Stanley off to an East Side singles bar to track down an unforgettably endowed blonde. Stanley finds his woman, and even finds the theatrical agent behind her. But when he tries to unravel the alleged setup, all clues point to Pritchert himself...and murder. Suddenly, the players in this mystery are falling like dominoes, and a dyspeptic policeman decides that Stanley Hastings is the one to blame. Facing three counts of murder and having your face emblazoned across the television screen is not Stanley's idea of a good time. Going to prison - and maybe the chair - is even worse.