Piston! With your keen eye for detail, we’ll have this case sewed up in no time! WOMAN: I said I was the victim of a crime.

PISTON: What makes you think you were murdered? PISTON: All right, given that you’re not harmed in anyway But it looks like you’ve had a close shave of some kind. WOMAN: My God! You think he was in the shower with me?!! PISTON: Because if it was a stabbing, you would have been in the same room with the killer. PISTON: So you were shot in the shower…by someone in the bedroom? PISTON: And the murder took place in the bathroom? WOMAN: Well, I was up in my room, taking a shower before dinner. If we make this quick, maybe I still have time to xerox some resumes before morning. PISTON: Just tell me about your murder and get it over with.

WOMAN: And how did you know this was our honeymoon? PISTON: Because no man in his right mind would ever be alone in a room with a woman in a towel without at least a bottle of champagne and a half-order of oysters on the way. WOMAN: Will that speed up the investigation? Hello, front desk? It’s me, Dick Piston, hotel detective! Put me through to the kitchen. WOMAN: But aren’t you going to rush up to my room and examine the scene of the crime? PISTON: Now, if you’ll take a seat, I have to make a phone call. PISTON: Coming here in a towel is thanks enough. Piston, I can’t tell you how grateful I am for this. When this goes offNo matter what: Case dismissed. WOMAN: It’s the one where somebody kills someone, right? WOMAN: Yes, it happened just now, up in my hotel room. Piston, please! You can’t just turn your back on me. PISTON: Are you sure? Because I’ve got a blow dryer in the desk. PISTON: Well, unless that crime is unnecessary wetness, there’s really not much I can do, in the time allotted. WOMAN: But you have to help me! I’m the victim of a crime! But there’s not going to be a tenth, so I’m afraid if it’s anything more time-consuming than a stuck pickle jar, I’m going to have to refer you to the day shift. PISTON: I’m afraid I’m not the man you’re looking for. Because when that strikes twelve, my Friday night nightmares become somebody else’s Saturday morning problem. And by anyone, they meant me, Dick Piston, hotel detective.Īnd that’s why, at ten minutes to midnight, I had my proverbial eyes glued to the literal clock. So that’s why they told me anyone who clocked even one minute of unauthorized overtime would be out of a proverbial job. So the management wasn’t entirely happy with my proverbial job performance. In fact, as hotel detective, I had personally investigated six unsolved murders in the last five weeks. The Lakeview Hotel had the highest mortality rate of any luxury accommodations west of Baghdad. And it was likely to continue hemorrhaging proverbial money until it stopped hemorrhaging potential hotel guests. You see, the hotel had been wallowing in red ink for quite some time now. But my employer had made it clear that anyone who did use the overtime would be spending all their time xeroxing resumes at the discount copy shop on the corner. And not that I couldn’t use the overtime. Not that I’m a proverbial stickler for whatever punctual people stickle for. But at ten minutes to midnight, I’m always here in my office, watching the clock. After midnight, you’ll catch me drowning my proverbial sorrows at the five-star dive bar in the lobby of that hotel. And on a Friday night, you’ll find me making my rounds at the Lakeview Hotel: a two-bit armpit on the upside of downtown. We really don’t have time for that.Īnd by we, I mean, me: Dick Piston, hotel detective. I know because it happened to me≻ut enough about me. PISTON: The story I’m gonna tell you, you’re not gonna believe.

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