Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 46, No. 11, November 1982

Cupflutter led him inside, past a dense gaggle of people milling in the foyer. The scene of the crime was an immense auditorium, kidney-shaped, with long rows of folding chairs surrounding a raised platform. Refreshments were available on tables to the rear. Beside one of the tables was a portly, middle-aged man with a Sterling silver letter opener jutting from his back.

Spectators jostled for a view of the victim. Two harried patrolmen were shooing them off.

“Victim’s name is Floyd Burbank,” said Cupflutter, consulting his notebook. “Thirty minutes ago he went to the men’s room, started back, stopped for a sandwich and keeled over dead. They checked his body and found the letter opener between his shoulder blades. No one knows who did it or why.”

Rimble grunted. “What made you think it was open and shut?”

Cupflutter pointed. On the floor was a vital clue: a thin line of blood trailed from the dead man’s outstretched finger, forming a wavering — but quite clear — indictment of his killer. The message said simply, THE BUTLER DID IT.

“Well, what’s the problem?” asked Rimble. “Did you talk to the butler? Does he have an alibi?”

Cupflutter could only groan, and shake his head, and jerk his thumb at a brightly-painted banner stretched between stanchions over hundreds of smartly-dressed men wearing topcoats, vests and black shoestring bowties. The banner read 54th ANNUAL INTERNATIONAL BUTLER’S CONVENTION — WELCOME, BUTLERS!

Rimble’s eyebrow twitched. “Good God,” he moaned. “There must be a thousand butlers in here!”

“Twelve hundred,” said Cupflutter.

“I’m getting a migraine,” said Rimble, rubbing his forehead.

“Let me bring you an aspirin, sir,” said eight crisp voices, all at once.

The Other Side by C. Bruce Hunter

The mobster’s life had been good, long and healthy. His death was something else!

* * *

Don Alberto trudged through the mist, squinting to keep track of the hooded figure who marched steadily ahead of him and occasionally sniffing the air for traces of brimstone that somehow weren’t there. The place was not what he expected. It didn’t matter, though. He was ready to go; he had already cheated Death for more than a decade.

That was one of the benefits of being wealthy. He could afford the very best in health care and was always first in line for transplants. His heart had gone first. Since then there were two kidney failures, new corneas to fix his cataracts, and half a dozen other operations along the way.

With so many problems, being a top man in the Mob didn’t hurt, either. It meant that he could always find a donor — willing or unwilling — if he needed one.

When the end finally did come, when he was no longer able to keep his body functioning, the Don went without protest. Death was so much a part of his business that he had long ago stopped fearing it, and his own death had come almost as a pleasant surprise. He couldn’t quite remember the transition from the hospital bed to... to wherever he was now. He had simply become aware of being led by a hooded figure across an endless expanse of ankle-deep mud shrouded by endless sheets of mist.

All things considered, the place wasn’t as bad as he’d expected. The mist didn’t bother him. He wasn’t curious to know what might be around him. And the mud, if that’s what it was, was cold but not unpleasant. At least there was no fire and brimstone, just the mist, the mud, and of course the hooded figure he had instinctively known he was supposed to follow. It could be a lot worse.

Then he heard the sounds. They were squishy, splashing sounds and they were coming steadily closer. Patches of dark gray soon dotted the mist, and as the squishes became louder, the patches blackened and gradually crystalized into more or less human shapes.

Don Alberto winced when they came out of the mist. They were human but grotesquely mutilated. A dozen of them appeared on all sides, surrounding him and leaving no way of escape. The nearest grinned at him, but it wasn’t a grin. As the creature moved closer, the Don saw that what looked like a grin was actually the effect of muscles contorted around an empty eye socket. Terrified by the sight, he turned to run but was immediately confronted by another, whose emaciated abdomen was split from hip to navel, and one whose chest had ruptured hideously. Others followed and quickly closed around him.

“It’s inevitable,” the hooded figure said calmly, turning to reveal a face whose shrunken skin gave it the appearance of a skull.

“What do they want?” the Don rasped as the creatures reached for him, but he barely heard the answer over the sounds of tearing flesh.

“They’ve come,” the hooded figure said, “to get their organs back.”

The Deep Pocket by David Linzee