My name is Max Fly, I’m a private investigator. Actually, my real name isn’t Max Fly; it’s Gunther Hjerstedt which means heartland, or something to that effect, in my native country, the Kingdom of Sweden. I say Kingdom of Sweden because the Hjerstedt’s are descendants of King Gustav I and originally came from Jarstad, about seventy-five miles southwest of Stockholm.
Stockholm is, an archipelago, a city that is composed of a chain of many islands.
This is where many of Western Wisconsin’s sturdy Scandinavian pioneers originated.
I am told we are an independent, liberty-loving people although I’m not sure how sturdy I am.
I changed my name to Fly because I was tired of spelling Hjerstedt every time I met someone. I know most people can spell Fly, even my close friend Homicide Lieutenant Harry Marshall. If I am anything, I am thoughtful. I want to make life as easy as I can for my friend as I can see his job wearing him down more every day.
I was born in south central Wisconsin in a paper mill town located on the Wisconsin River, called Wisconsin Rapids, but I never saw a rapids. My father was a profligate frontier type who never held a job long, drank everyday, played poker every night, womanized when he could and fought when provoked; these were his good qualities. He was around for a few years after I entered this world but I can’t remember much about him. I am told, however, that I did inherit some of his more colorful traits.
So far my life has been about as stable as a woman going through menopause. I spent time in the South Pacific during the war and then on the rodeo circuit as a roper and a bull rider down in Texas where one old bull and I seemed to have had a running feud going; that is until he finally put me in the hospital. It was then I decided it was better to concede defeat and move on to another line of work.
I signed on as a reporter for the Milwaukee Journal, the Beer City’s evening paper, before moving on to a failing rag in the small Midwestern town of Beaver Dam, Wisconsin. Those few years in Beaver Dam were like a lifetime anywhere else. After several fortuitous forays into crime solving, I decided to hang up pen and paper and strap on a piece and become a private dick.
My love life has been as stable as my career path. My first wife left me for a guy in Kenosha who tightens lug nuts on Nash Ramblers. It seems the only thing my wife and I had in common was her vagina. Women get rid of me about as often as they change a pair of shoes. Some of my friends call me a Jack Weed, so I don’t care to know what I’m called by those who don’t like me. But I’m at the stage of my life where I don’t really care.
I have a part-time partner who makes himself available to assist me whenever I need it. His name is Hap Schultz. He was my roping partner down in Texas. He was the header and I was the healer. He convinced me I was through with rodeoing so I swore off riding anything more dangerous than a city bus. He said he was going to hang up his spurs too. He returned to Wisconsin with me to keep me from getting in too much trouble. The truth of the matter is, Hap has a greater penchant for finding trouble than I do.
When Hap isn’t involved in his full-time profession of chasing skirts, he is helping me track down criminals that I have been asked to find. I go after anyone from cheating husbands to bail bond jumpers to murderers. Hap, however, prefers to not be actively involved with the murderers or