MAX FLY AND THE WALMART CAPER

Max Fly, Private Eye
President & CEO of
Max Fly Private & Nefarious Investigations & Pest Control

The name is Max Fly and I am a private eye, a damn good one too! I was sitting at my desk staring out the window at the Burnt Corn All Night Diner and Laundromat watching a well-endowed waitress by the name of Bea Heine, serve up an order of cheese grits and scrambled eggs with a side of hash browns smothered and covered,  to Wayne Dwopps, our local TV weatherman, and wondering why the phone hadn’t rung in over a week.

My desk is located next to my partner’s, Chico “Zippy Doo” Rodriguez, a sort of illegal green card carrying Hispanic from Matamoros, Mexico, a small town a few miles across the Rio Grande River from El Paso, Texas. Zippy heads up our displaced persons and pest control divisions.

Zippy Doo, Head Of our Displaced Persons & Pest Control Divisions

“You all right, Max?” Zippy asked. “You look like one of them dummies at the Burnt Corn General Store.”

“I don’t know, Zip, a little down I guess. Today is kinda slow. Nothing on the docket. Actually, the whole damn week is kinda slow. Okay, it’s been a slow year. The last case we had was when Alan Skidmore contacted us and told us that someone had broken into his trailer and stole five pounds of bacon out of his refrigerator.”

“Wasn’t that when his wife got up for a midnight snack and was afraid to admit it.”

“Yeah, it was. Luckily, I took along Wanda Winchester, our reconciliation expert and she detected a faint bacon scent on the breath of Skidmore’s wife and she finally confessed.”

The phone rang. Both Zippy and I reached for it. Zippy was faster.

“Max Fly, Private & Nefarious Investigations & Pest Control. Who is this?”

“This is Freda, Freda Livery, what’s your address there?” Freda is lacking in social graces and is the delivery girl for the “We Serve It Hot Pizza Parlor” located in downtown Burnt Corn where she works to pay for her tuition at the Burnt Corn Automotive and Bus Mechanics College, an online technical school.

“Freda,” Zippy began, “there are only 300 people in Burnt Corn and you have made deliveries here before how can you be lost? Aren’t you part Muskogee Indian? I thought Indians were supposed to be great trackers.”

“My people were great trackers until the white man civilized us.”

“Where is Gilroy doesn’t he usually ride with you?” Zippy asked.

Gilroy is Gilroy Skindancer another local Musgokee Indian and Freda’s boyfriend.

“Gilroy’s in jail. Sheriff Hertz pulled him in on an outstanding drunk and disorderly warrant.”

Sheriff Hertz is Wyatt Hertz, Burnt Corn’s ersatz Sheriff the main reason people refer clients to us. He and his deputy, Hiram Firam, are about as incompetent a pair of law enforcement officers as a pair can be.

Freda walked in with our pizza within five minutes after Zippy got her straightened away.

“That’ll be $7.95.”

Zippy paid her out of our petty cash fund, which was beginning to dwindle pretty fast, along with a $1.00 tip.

“Hey, hold up there, Freda,” Zippy yelled. “This pizza is cold. What’s up with that?”

“Oh, I had to stop at the laundromat and put my clothes in the dryer before they began to stink. Gilroy was supposed to do that, but you know what happened to him. Don’t you have a microwave in this dump?”

“If we had a microwave, we wouldn’t have had to call you for a HOT pizza!” Zippy yelled.

“Whatever,” she replied slamming the door behind her.

“Damn, Max, what are these fishy looking things? I didn’t order fish on this pizza. It’s supposed to be a five cheese pizza.”

“They look like anchovies, I think. Just pick ‘em off. I’m not hungry anyway.”

The phone rang. Zippy was slamming the first piece of pizza sans anchovies, in his mouth so I beat him to it.

“Max Fly, Private & Nefarious Investigations & Pest Control, how may I help you?”

“Mr. Fly?”

I knew I didn’t know who this person was as nobody who knows me calls me mister.

“Yeah, who is this?” I replied.

“This is Frank, Frank Ferter. I am the security guard at the Walmart out on the by-pass.”

Frank didn’t need to tell me where the Walmart was as Burnt Corn only encompasses about five square miles and it isn’t really a bypass, it’s Alabama Highway 84 and there is only one Walmart. The next nearest one is in Monroeville about fifteen miles to the east.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Ferter?”

“Well, it appears we have a situation here and we can’t reach Sheriff Wyatt Hertz nor that worthless deputy of his, Hiram Firam. Nobody is answering the phone at the Sheriff’s office. My boss, Ms. Derry Yare, suggested that I call you.”

“Did you try reaching the sheriff at Patty Mae’s All Night Bar and Pool Hall?”

“Yeah, and Patty Mae said she ain’t seen them either. Can you come on out? Ms. Derry Yare said she would pay your fee if you can help us here.”

I looked over at Zippy. There was a pile of anchovies sitting next to the box of pizza. He had already consumed half the pizza and was guzzling down a can of Pabst Blue Ribbon Beer.

“Well, my assistant and I are in the middle of our dinner. Can’t this wait?”

“Not really, Mr. Fly, I’m afraid it can’t. We have a situation here. There is total chaos and I am the only security personnel in here. The rest are female Walmart clerks and in spite of what all the wimmen are claiming these days, they just ain’t up to handling the altercation that I have on my hands now.”

“Tell me what’s going on, Mr. Ferter.”

“You don’t have to call me mister, mister, you can call me Frank. We got a Miss Josseleen Elida Sanchez here. She was driving a motorized shopping cart, without a drivers license I might add, through our Walmart while gorging herself on five-finger-discount grub and guzzling down some of our finest discount wine. I caught her grabbing a package of our week old fresh sushi, eat a piece, and then return it to the shelf.

Miss Josseleen Elida Sanchez

Next on her menu were mini muffins and cinnamon rolls. The damn woman consumed them in the same fashion as the sushi and, are you ready for this, Mr. Fly? For the main course, she ate a whole damn rotisserie chicken. By the end of the meal, she had drained two bottles of wine. All told, Ms. Derry Yare said she consumed $32.36 in food and drink, without even leaving a tip.

When I asked Sanchez why she did it she said that she was hungry and did not want to take any of the items outside of the store, but did consume everything she could while inside the store.”

“Where is she now, Frank?”

“She broke loose and jumped on the motorized shopping cart and is now riding around our parking lot. She has already rammed it into a Toyota Yaris and it looks like the Yaris is totaled. That damn Yaris is smaller than our motorized shopping carts. I didn’t know we had any tree huggers living in Burnt Corn who would buy one of them things. They must be visiting or passin’ through.

How soon can you get here, Mr. Fly?”

I glanced over at Zippy again and noticed that the only thing left to eat were the anchovies.

“You can call me Max,” I said. “We can be there in five minutes, but we have a hasty response fee of ten dollars that we charge when responding to situations without prior notice.”

“I’m sure Ms. Derry Yare will be inclined to pay your hasty response charge.”

“We are on our way.”

I hung up and grabbed my hat and my Smith and Wesson .357 that was located in my rigging hanging over the back of my chair.

“Finish that Pabst Blue Ribbon and grab your shootin’ iron, Zippy. We got us a situation.”

I filled Zippy in on what was happening as he slid behind the wheel of the Fly Mobile and headed toward Alabama Highway 84 that Frank Ferter referred to as the Burnt Corn By-Pass.

When we pulled into the Burnt Corn Walmart we noticed a large crowd of people milling around in front of the store, staring out at the parking lot where a diminutive Hispanic woman was driving erratically with a portly uniformed guard, who we assumed was Mr. Frank Ferter, in hot pursuit on foot.

Zippy pulled in next to him and asked him if that was the suspect he was chasing.

Mr. Ferter bent over at the waist and placed his hands on his thighs as he wheezed, “What in the hell do you think? Of course, it is. Do you think I’m out here running a freakin’ 10K road race?”

“No need for the sarcasm, Mr. Ferter,” I replied. “Hop in the back we’ll give you a ride.”

“Head east,” he gasped, “she’s heading to the store. We can cut her off. Damn, the battery on that cart should be about dead by now. She’s been riding around for a good forty-five minutes. I feel like I sweated off at least five pounds.”

“Which way is east,” Zippy asked.

Mr. Frank Ferter looked at him and said while pointing to his left, “If you don’t know directions, how in the hell did you ever get out of Mexico?”

Zippy looked at him with disgust and replied, “That’s why we hire coyotes. They know where they are going and none of them are fat.”

When we turned the corner around the back of the store the suspect almost ran head-on into the Fly Mobile. She yanked the wheel to the right and jumped out, doing a perfect jump and roll, making me wonder if she was a former airborne ranger, and proceeded to run up a hill on foot.

“I can’t run anymore,” Frank Ferter snorted, “I’m plumb worn out. One of you has to go get her.”

I looked over at Zippy and he said, “Hell, Max, I’m driving.”

“The car’s stopped, Zip. You can get her.”

“Let’s settle this with Paper, Scissors, and rock,” Zippy replied.

“Dammit, both of you guys go. I think she grabbed some Ding Dongs on her way out the store. We are paying you your hasty response fee, so respond.”

The fact that we hadn’t had a case for quite awhile and we needed the money, we both jumped out of the Fly Mobile, Zippy took the keys before we headed up the hill in pursuit of Ms. Sanchez.

Since Zippy was a heavy smoker, he petered out about halfway up so when I crested the top of the ridge, I realized I was on my own and I was wheezing myself.

I looked down and I spotted the suspect sitting behind a rather large boulder eating her package of Ding Dongs and washing it down with a bottle of Thunderbird wine. I hoped that wasn’t the wine Mr. Frank Ferter was referring to when he said she was consuming some of their finest discount wine.

I pulled out my Smith and Wesson .357 as I approached.

“Excuse me, Miss,” I panted, “but I am going to have to ask you to come with me.”

She looked up at me and smiled, “Why don’t you sit down and join me for a little refreshment. I have another package of Ding Dongs and there is more than enough of this Thunderbird wine left for both of us,” she said, thrusting out the bottle in my direction.

I never was a big fan of Thunderbird. I preferred Ripple in my day, but I grabbed the bottle anyway and placed it down on the ground behind me.

“Why don’t you come back with me?” I responded, holding out my hand.

She grabbed it and I helped her up, surprised at how tiny she was.

When we got back to Walmart, Sheriff Wyatt Hertz and his deputy, Hiram Firam were there talking to a woman who I assumed was Ms. Derry Yare. The lights were rotating on the top of their Chevrolet Caprice squad car, casting a blue brilliance off the back wall of the building. Zippy and Frank Ferter were over to the side arguing about Coyotes and illegal immigrants.

I handed over Ms. Sanchez to Sheriff Hertz.

“Mr. Fly? I’m Ms. Derry Yare, the store manager. I wish to thank you for your help when there was none to be found anywhere,” she said, her eyes blazing at Sheriff Hertz.

Fly Mobile

“Please follow me and I’ll get you your money. I like your car. What kind is it?”

“It’s a 1958 Oldsmobile 98. We call it the Fly Mobile.”

“Nice. Here you go and I have included two Walmart gift cards as a bonus.”

“That’s mighty nice of you, Ms. Derry Yare, thank you.”

“That’s quite all right. By the way, are you married Mr. Fly?”

Max Fly And The Foul Smelling Caper

Max Fly, Private Eye
President & CEO of
Max Fly Private & Nefarious Investigations & Pest Control

Max Fly Private & Nefarious Investigations & Pest Control located in downtown Burnt Corn, Alabama,  where we have been protecting the innocent people of Burnt Corn from murder, narcotics distribution, robbery, extortion, loansharking and other nasty mafia behavior for over ten years. We are also licensed as pest control agents.

Zippy Doo, Head Of our Displaced Persons & Pest Control Divisions

It was a balmy January night. We had removed our shirts and were sitting at our desks in our undershirts with the window open and an oscillating fan turned on high, blowing Zippy Doo’s cigarette smoke around the room. Our rigging, holding our Smith and Wesson .357 revolvers, was hanging over the back of our chairs. For most of the evening, we were watching the comings and goings at the Burnt Corn All-night Diner and Laundromat but I was currently mesmerized by the dark sweat stains that continued to grow under Zippy’s impressively cut arms. Zippy was watching a young coed as she carried a basket of soiled unmentionables into the laundromat. He was glassing her with his new professional lightweight Ziest Conquest HD 10×42  detective binoculars with the advanced HD lens design with extra-low chromatic dispersion. He received it last year as a gift from a small group of his relatives and close friends from Matamoros, Mexico, that he had smuggled into the United States to pick rutabagas in southern North Dakota. Where they got ahold of high-quality German binoculars in Mexico is unknown. He was still glomming onto the young coed when the phone rang. Zippy Doo answered.

“Max Fly, Private & Nefarious Investigations & Pest Control. Who is this?”

Helen Feelich

“This is Helen Feelich and I need to speak with someone from your pest control division.”

” I can help you. My name is Chico Rodriguez, but you can call me Zippy Doo.”

“Well, Mr. Doo, can you come over here right away? There is a revolting essence in my bedroom and I need you to investigate this problem.”

“Essence, eh? Well, we are kinda busy right now,” Zippy replied, as he swatted two mating flies that had taken over the top of what was left of his Sonic burger that he had for lunch earlier in the day.

“If we drop everything we are doing to take care of your mephitic problem, there will be a hasty response charge of $10.00.”

” What mephitic problem? I got a stench in here and I don’t care about your hasty charges,” she screamed, “I just want to get rid of that ungodly vapor so I can sleep. I have to be to work at the Burnt Corn Bare and Intimate Essentials, Brassiere, Corset, and Apparel factory by 7:00 a.m. tomorrow morning. I am lead sewer on the line that sews the straps on the cups of the brassieres and tomorrow we are doing the double D cups. If I don’t get some sleep, I could sew my fingers into a double D brassiere and that just won’t do.”

Fly Mobile

“We’re on our way,” Zippy replied as he stood up and strapped on his .357 Smith and Wesson revolver.

“Don’t you think a .357 is a bit of an overkill for a skunk or some other malodorous critter?” I asked.

“Dead’s dead. Don’t matter how they get there,” he replied.

We jumped into the Fly Mobile with Zippy driving. He had just received his learners permit that he kept in the glove box along with his recently expired green card which was a forgery anyway, and rushed right over to 1221 Backwater Avenue where Mrs. Feelich resides.

She lived in a nicely appointed double wide and she let us in before we could even knock.

“Mrs. Feelich? I’m Zippy Doo and this is my partner, Max Fly. We are Private Eyes as well as pest control agents.

“That’s nice. now get in here and get to work and find what is causing this halitotic smell.”

As usual, it didn’t take us long before we solved the mystery – the smell turned out to be her husband, Amos, who was passed out under the bed. So for an extra $10.00 we took Amos to Patty Mae’s All Night Bar and Pool Hall in downtown Burnt Corn where everybody smells about the same and told him not to go home until after 7:00 a.m. We left him with a bar of Ivory soap the cost of which was added to Mrs. Feelich’s bill.

Amos Feelich

This is why we do what we do. It’s not for the big fees. It’s for the good feeling we get when we help remove the vermin and botheration that torment the poor citizens of this fine southern Alabama city.

You got a problem? Give us a call that’s all.

Max Fly In Buenos Aires, Argentina

The phone rang.
“Rocco’s Pub.” It was Bubba, Rocco’s three hundred pound bouncer
“Hey, Bubba, is the Rocco Man there?”
“Just a moment. Rocco, it’s the Cheese Head. Can you talk?”
“Yeah, give me a moment. I’ll get to my office. Hang up the phone after I pick up.”
I could hear laughter and chatter in the background and then Rocco was on the line.
“Okay, I got it, Bubba, thanks.”
I heard the extension click as Bubba hung it up.
“Cheese Head, you still there?”
“Still here, whatcha got?”
“The connection’s good, like you are on the south side or something. Okay, I got this from Harry last night. The magazine rented you an apartment. It’s the one they told you about. The first-month rent has been paid and the key is where you would expect to find it. Inside you’ll find more detailed instructions.They want you to write an article on the Buenos Aires Cowboy Fair, La Feria De Mataderos. It’s a weekly fair with folk dancing, handicrafts, and food, as well as gaucho demonstrations.”
“I’ve heard of it.”
“Do they do the polka down there?”
“Don’t think so. At least I haven’t seen it yet, but there are a bunch of Krauts walking around. Anything else?”
“That’s it.”
“Thanks, Rocco, I’ll be in touch.”
It was a studio apartment in the Puerto Madero district where rusting ships and decaying warehouses littered the area. I walked in and cleared off space on a bookshelf and set down my bottle of brandy. Now I was moved in. I found my instructions. They were from my handler.
He said to go to La Capilla, a boliches, a nightclub, in downtown Buenas Aires. It had been dry-cleaned and I would meet a deep cover agent, an agent of influence, a raven who had been working Buenas Aires the past three years. She had been briefed and was waiting for contact with me. She was in her late 30’s, about 5’ 4” and 110 pounds with black hair and brown eyes. Her codename was Snake. She knew my code name and had more information about the Nazis and what happened in Poltava, Ukraine.
When she walked in the La Capilla it was already after midnight and the bar was still crowded. She was wearing jeans that hugged her like they meant it and a crimson T-shirt stretched tight across her breasts. She had on an open leather jacket, and tennis shoes and wore a holstered and belted six-shooter, a .357. She walked to the bar, turned, and stood with her elbows on the counter and her ankles crossed. Her eyes were as cold as hung beef and her mouth pitched at an angle that made me squirm in my seat as if I had a diaper rash. She promised trouble. She was my contact and damn if I didn’t know her. Medusa, still tough as nails.
She ordered a drink and took a sip and then looked around. Our eyes locked on each other as I walked toward the bar. Her eyes lifted from mine. They were blank, clouded, lost somewhere in the long roll of her life.
“Hi, I’m a Cheese Head from America, the state of Wisconsin. Names Max, may I buy you a drink?”
“Sure, you can call me snake, I’m from Georgia.”
After the drinks arrived, she thanked me.
“You’re welcome,” I replied.
“I see you are still walking on the green side instead of lying under the brown side, Max,” Medusa said.
“I am. Guess I’ve been lucky. How long have you been in this racket?”
“A long time.”
“I was told you would have some information for me?”
She laid an index finger against my lips. “Shhh, quiet my love. Not here. If you want to hear my story, you must have patience. Are you hungry, Cheese Head? The fresh pasta, calamari, and Patagonian wines are particularly good, as are the desserts. Perhaps you could buy me dinner after we finish our drinks?”
“I’m always up for a late night snack,” I replied.
“I know you are,” she replied with a smile. “I see you are back to writing once again. The vaqueros down here are an interesting breed. Very tough and manly. I have enjoyed myself while here.”
“I can only imagine.”
“Yes, please, imagine. It gets el toro raging in you, Cheese Head. I like you best when el toro is loose and running free in your mind,” she smiled.
I looked around and noticed a fat man in the far corner of the bar, eating a sandwich and drinking a beer. Later he was still sitting there. His sandwich was gone but his beer was untouched. He was looking in our direction.
“You notice that fat man in the far corner?”
“Yes, he’s been watching me for awhile now. He hasn’t touched his beer.”
I got up and gestured for Medusa to get up.
“Let’s go over there,” I said. “A little more privacy.”
She picked up her purse and I led her around the corner to a booth in the back.
I was facing to the front of the bar so I could watch the movement of the fat man with the sandwich and beer. He didn’t appear.
“Look,” I said turning back to face her. “The man who has been following you may have killed one of my assets, Selena, so you have to be careful. I am trying to be patient but I need you to answer my questions about Poltava.”
“Everyone wants to eat but only a few are willing to hunt, Max.”
I knew what she meant. Medusa wasn’t afraid to hunt and she was damn good at it.
She reached into her bag and removed a brown manilla envelope and began to unwrap the string holding the flap closed. She removed a sheath of papers about one inch thick. The cover sheet was marked, “STRENG GEHIEM” in bold red letters.
“What’s that mean?”
“Top Secret.”
“Is the whole report in German? I can’t read German.”
“That’s okay. That’s why you have me.”
I looked at her smiling face.
“I thought I have you for other reasons.”
“That too,” she replied with a coy smile. “This report has been very difficult to get. Nobody in law enforcement gives anything away for free, pissing matches over pride and turf too often leaving everyone with nothing to show for it except wet shoes,” Medusa said with a frown. 
“I had to be very creative,” she smiled that knowing smile.
I nodded my head acknowledging her hidden meaning.
“Let’s finish our drinks and go to my apartment. I have a bottle and you can translate what you have there.”
“I thought you would never ask.”

It took us about five minutes to walk to my new apartment. We were pretty sure the man with the sandwich and beer didn’t see us sneak out but we retraced our steps, just in case.
We didn’t see any sign of him.
I opened the door and ushered Medusa in.
I poured a hook of brandy in each of our glasses and sat down next to Medusa on the well-worn couch. She took a solid drink and reached into her bag and took out her report and began to read.
“Have you heard of Konstantin Ivanenko?”
“No, I haven’t. Who is he?”
“A Russian ufologist.
“Ufologist?”
“Someone who studies UFOs. Ivanenko was an expert, Max.”
“An expert on UFO’s? Is that like an expert on looney tunes?”
“Before you cast aspersions, Max, listen to this report.
According to Ivanenko, the Nazis established a German base in the Muhlig-Hofmann Mountains in Antarctica. It was discovered in 1938 by German Captain Alfred Ritscher. The area was renamed Neuschwabenland, New Swabia and was known only as Station 211. The Richter expedition’s scientists used their Dornier seaplanes to explore the area and discovered ice-free lakes that were heated by underground volcanic fissures and they were able to land on them. It is believed that the expedition was to scout out a secret base of operations. and the facility is known only as Base 211.
Now, if you had been a Wehrmacht soldier at the railroad station in Poltava, the Ukraine, during the summer of 1942, you may have seen a very strange-looking military unit. The unit consisted of women, all of them blond and blue-eyed, between the ages of 17 and 24, tall and slender, with sensational figures.
“My favorite kind.”
“Every kind is your favorite kind, Max. Each woman wore sky-blue uniforms and Italian-style garrison caps with the insignia of the SS. You might have thought the SS had recruited a platoon of high-class call girls, but the truth was far stranger than that. You would have been looking at Reichsführer-SS Heinrich Himmler’s latest brainstorm The Antarctic Settlement Women or ASF. The secret Fatherland of the new 1000 year Reich.
Ten thousand of the racially most pure Ukrainians were transported in 1942 by Martin Bormann to the German Antarctic Base 211, in the proportion of four Ukrainian women to one German man.
If true, this would mean that Himmler transferred 2,500 Waffen-SS soldiers, who had proven themselves in combat on the Russian front, to Station 211 in Antarctica. This may be the source of the myth of the Last SS Battalion.”
“Are you trying to tell me that Nazi’s are living under ice in Antarctica?”
“I’m trying to tell you it’s possible and that it’s possible that life actually existed there long before the Nazi’s got there. There is strong evidence that Antarctica was charted long ago by unknown people when temperatures were much warmer.
In 1947, Admiral Richard Byrd went to Antarctica on Operation Highjump. They said the reason for the operation was to test military hardware under extreme conditions, the suggestion that it was a combat operation aimed at dislodging Nazi troops from their secret Valhalla has always floated in the air.
But that wasn’t all: Vice-Admiral Byrd had apparently stumbled into a magnetic anomaly that messed up his navigational equipment and his radio. He radioed back reports of seeing a completely different, verdant landscape under his aircraft.
It is believed the observatory contains vast crystals which put forth a certain kind of magnetism, which is used as a guidance system so that large spaceships could land at that location.”
“Where did you get this information?”
She was smiling in the mirror.
“South America, Buenas Aires, in particular, is crawling with ex-Nazis, including Richard Gehlen and Otto Skorzeny, Hilter’s former bodyguard. These pigs still like young women and have a difficult time keeping from bragging. Más loco que una cabra con pollitos”, they are crazier than a goat with chicks. It isn’t hard getting information out of them.”
I stared at her.
She smiled, “It’s a job, Max, and I’m damn good at it. “Echar un polvo, I get paid to fuck,” she smiled again.
“What do you think? Would you like to visit Antarctica?”
“I don’t think so, but thanks for asking.”
“Ok, well, I’m tired.”
“If you would like to make an old timer happy one more time, I sure would like you to spend the night with me.”
“ Max, you are more a survivor than an expert when it comes to women. I planned on staying.”
I woke to an empty bed.
I started some coffee and filled a cup. I walked to the little refrigerator and pulled out a carton of milk and added a couple of fingers to the steaming hot liquid and sat down on the couch, and thought about the evening before. If Medusa stayed on my calendar, I didn’t think I would make it to the end of the week. She sure had some unusual information on the Nazis living in Antarctica and I was trying to see how this all tied into the tragedy that happened on November 22, 1963.
There was a soft rap on the door. I picked up my revolver and went to see who was there.
It was Medusa. I let her in.
“I just got word from your handler. Your shadow has been thrown in jail.”
“What? When?”
“Last night. We have to go.”
There was blood on her chin and some on her hands and a spattering of blood on her shirt.
“What happened to you?”
“That fat man from last night? He followed us. I had to take executive action.”
“He’s dead?”
“What do you think?”
I felt like the glue that was holding the world together, was finally letting go.

Max Fly – U977 German U-Boat

UFO Athens Ohio 1965
UFO Athens Ohio 1965

 

Max Fly and Hap Schultz are recruited by an outed CIA agent who heads up a clandestine element of agents that believe that the JFK assassination was orchestrated by former Nazis and their boss, Allen Dulles and that it goes higher than that – much higher.
Max and Hap resurrect their rodeo career as the cover for their covert activities as they travel the circuit from Texas, New Mexico, and Arizona before they head to Mexico and finally South America as they search for missing Nazis. There, Max and Hap find themselves falling into a vortex of a bizarre hidden society and the unknown living hell framed by the Nazi Party.

In the beginning…

You work like a son of a bitch for weeks on end and nothing makes sense. You begin to wonder why you are wasting your time and your client’s money. You are confused and lost in a convoluted world of lies and misleading statements. But then one day it clicks. Somebody tells you something. You think of something you saw, read, or heard and suddenly, everything makes sense but here’s the kicker, most of the time you wish it didn’t. Because the things we are hired to figure out are some of the most revolting things in the world.
One day you wake up and find yourself thrust in the midst of other people’s flotsam and you wonder how you got there and that is exactly what happened to me. The story I’m about to tell you is true. It happened a long time ago and some of the details are becoming blurred in my old age. It all began in the winter of 1969, December to be exact, six years after the assassination of John Fitzgerald Kennedy. Let me rephrase that, my involvement began in December of 1969.
The story of the Kecksburg incident begins at 4:45 PM, December 9, 1965.
From northern Canada to western Pennsylvania, thousands of witnesses described “an orange fireball tearing across the evening sky towards the southeast, followed by a trail of smoke. Thirteen witnesses included pilots spread throughout Ontario, Michigan, and Ohio. They were along the flight path of this bell-shaped object.
Once over Ohio, however, the object clearly demonstrated that it was not a typical meteor, nor a crash in the ordinary sense of “space debris,” for according to witnesses, it stopped, stood still “for a few seconds” and then changed its course towards Pennsylvania.
Then I got that phone call, the one that would change my life forever.

JFK Murder Solved – Fiction By David Hesse

He glanced at his watch. It was 11:45 pm and the street was still deserted. He had been standing there for fifteen minutes. It was a Sunday night and the buildings were dark. A lone streetlight cast shadows across the street and sidewalk and he watched the mist as the wind blew it across the yellow beam put forth by the light. It was remarkably quiet. Not a sound. Nothing!
Earlier that evening, the fog moved in and soon after the heavy mist began to fall. The tall thin-faced man pulled the collar of his trench coat up around his neck and pulled down the brim of his hat to keep the dampness out. Nothing about him drew attention. He kept an eye on the phone booth down the street. It was still empty. He reached into his breast pocket and removed a package of Chesterfield cigarettes. He tapped the package on the back of his hand and bent down and removed a stick with his teeth. He replaced the package in his pocket and removed his lighter. He spun the wheel, igniting the flint and a flame shot up momentarily illuminating his lined and haggard face. He hadn’t slept in two days. He snapped the lid shut and returned it to his pocket. The smoke he exhaled was lost in the thick fog that enveloped him.
He looked around. He didn’t see anything, but he felt it. He didn’t like the feeling. He stuck to the plan to make sure he wasn’t followed, but you just never knew. From experience, he knew he couldn’t trust anyone and it was one helluva way to live your life.
He glanced at his watch once more. It was 11:53. He took one last drag of his cigarette and flipped it in a nearby puddle. He listened to the brief hiss before the butt was extinguished.
He inhaled deeply and looked to his right and left once again to make sure nobody was around before he moved out. Hurriedly, he crossed the street to the phone booth. He stepped in and closed the door. A light went on. He wrapped his hand in his handkerchief and smashed the light, enveloping him in darkness. He lifted the receiver and dropped in a dime. He knew the number by heart and had dialed it many times in the dark. The phone rang once before it was picked up. There was complete silence on the other end.
The tall man said, “7-1-1-3-4. I’ve been burned.”
“Where are you?”
“Zone three, drop one.”
“Stay there.”
The line went dead.
He hung up the phone and took a deep breath. He lit up another cigarette and hungrily sucked in the smoke. His throat was raw. He had been smoking too many of these things. He opened the door and tossed it across the sidewalk. He reached under his coat and removed his gun, a 9mm Beretta. He chambered a round and put his hand and gun in his outside right coat pocket. Even though he dry cleaned the area he could never be too careful.
Quickly he walked to the corner and turned left heading toward an alley behind an old warehouse. He stepped into the shadows and waited. His mind wandered to his earlier conversation with Serena and he couldn’t erase it from his mind.
“Paul, she said, “I have the bona fides, documents that prove the CIA along with a German expat, one of those Paperclip Nazi’s, named DeMohrenschildt, a Dallas oil geologist and close friend of Lee Harvey Oswald’s, was in on the plot to kill John F. Kennedy and it goes higher than we thought. Paul, this makes me sick.”
It had been so long since anyone called him Paul, he had to pause for a moment to gather his thoughts. “Okay, put it together and meet…”
Was that a click on his phone, or hers? “Selena, did you hear that?”
“Yes, I have to go. I’ll meet you…”
Those were her last words. He heard her scream and a moment later an unknown voice came on the line.
“You’re next Paul. We know where you are.”
The line went dead.
It wasn’t long before a black Lincoln limousine pulled around the corner and came to a stop in front of the alley. The back door opened as it slowly rolled by and Paul jumped in closing the door behind him.
When he caught his breath he said, “We lost our Asset, Selena. They got to her this morning and they outed me. They called me by name.”
As they drove away his handler looked at him and gave him a scotch. “We are going to have to bring you in, Paul.”
“Why? I am about to tie this whole thing up. We got ‘em right where we want them. What we gathered isn’t chicken feed. It’s some serious stuff.”
“No, we don’t.”
“What?”
“Your swallow was killed last night. She was beaten and raped and dumped in the East River. They found her body this morning. She is currently at the morgue. Her apartment was trashed and her camera, typewriter, and files are all gone. Nothing.”
The tall man was quiet for a moment, taking this all in. If this was true, all the work he put together for the past year was ruined, compromised. Without supporting documentation, all he had was his word and he would be going up against some of the most formidable men in the world, not just the CIA but the President of the United States himself.
Paul threw back the scotch and looked over at his handler and found himself looking down the barrel of a silencer.
“I’m sorry Paul.”
Phatt, the sound of the silenced gun was the last thing Paul heard before the .22 caliber slug entered his skull, mixing up what was left of his brain. The slug didn’t exit his skull. It was the perfect caliber round for an execution.
He died instantly.

Blue Magic and, Where did you say Max Fly came from?

Author At Golden Colorado copy

Women speak about 7,000 words a day and men speak about 2,000 words a day. What does that mean? I’m not sure, I just read that; but it is just one of the many differences between the sexes and those differences are what I try to gently point out to my readers through my main character, Max Fly. Gently probably isn’t the correct term as Max is pretty blunt when it comes to expressing his feelings about the opposite sex.

In my books, Max Fly and three of his friends, Homicide Detective Harry Marshall, bar owner, Dan Cirrocco, known as the Rocco Man, and Hap Schultz, appear in each episode and spend a lot of time pointing out that women are erroneously considered the gentler sex. Actually, these guys are real but not their characters. Dan Cirrocco owns Rocco’s Pub in Jasper, Georgia. I have known Dan over 35 years and enjoy having a few brandy manhattans in his establishment. He is a stand-up guy and has the perfect personality for owning a bar and restaurant. I have taken the liberty to move his pub to Wauwatosa, Wisconsin for purposes of the novels. Hap Schultz is a friend and poker pal whose name just rolls off my tongue and is a perfect fit for the irascible character who has that name in the Max Fly books. The real Hap is a successful businessman and a far cry, or maybe a short cry, from the Hap Schultz portrayed in my books. Harry Marshall was never a homicide detective, but he was a dear friend of mine for over sixty years. He lost his life to cancer a year and a half ago and many of our conversations over the years have been woven into my stories. He was one of the wittiest people I have known. By writing about him I feel his presence every day and that’s a good thing.

Someone recently asked how I came up with the name Max Fly and I had to think about that for a moment before I could answer and say I don’t know. Actually,  it just rolled off my pen one day. When I think of names my mother’s maiden name always comes to my mind. My mother was Swedish and her maiden name was Hjerstedt and when I was a youngster, I was glad I didn’t have to learn to spell it. So, I decided that I would name my character Max Hjerstedt and have him change it to Max Fly so Harry Marshall would be able to spell it.

For those of you who haven’t fallen down the rabbit hole yet and read one of my Max Fly, Private Eye novels, you have missed out on an afternoon of fun and debauchery. Well, debauchery at least. Max enjoys a fine brandy, a smoking cigar and hot women and he personifies what I think constitutes a typical macho male back in the 1950’s and 60’s when political correctness didn’t prevail and there weren’t any “safe places” for someone to go to when they were offended. If you didn’t like what someone said about you, it was settled by rolling in the dirt trying to knock out the last nut in the offending guys grill. When it was settled the winner would buy the loser a beer and they would walk away, not necessarily friends, but respectful enemies.

Max is someone who has had a difficult time finding his place in this world. He has been unsuccessful in his jobs and his love life but somehow he continues to land on his feet mainly because of the support of his friends and, so the story goes, even a blind squirrel can find a nut.

Max Fly, Private Eye and Homicide Detective Harry Marshall At A Crime Scene

 

Beach Cowboy

“What’s happening? We were told shots have been fired.”
“That’s right officer,” an older woman with graying hair answered, “Across the street. I’m pretty sure it’s on the second floor. The back apartment. I was out front getting the mail when a dark figure walked by and ran up the stairs.”
“A negro?”
“No, I mean he was wearing dark clothes.”
“Okay, continue.”
“Later, I was hanging wash in the back and I heard shots. I ran into my apartment and called the cops and then came back outside.”
“How long ago was that?”
“About twenty minutes. It sure takes you coppers a long time to get to a crime scene.”
Harry ignored her.
“Have you seen anyone leaving the building?”
“No, but they could have gone out the back.”
“Okay, stay here. Come on Max, I’ll need your help on this. Are you strapped?”
I nodded and Harry walked toward the building. I followed.
“Stay close to me. It will give them someone else to shoot at.”
“Thanks.”
“Now when we get close and if you are in doubt, empty your clip.”
“I don’t have a clip. I have a revolver.”
Harry looked at me. “Whatever.”
We walked up the stairs. Harry first, his back against the wall, his gun pointed toward the ground at his side. I followed him.
My leather holster dug into my shoulder. I hated it when it did that. After being smacked against a wall by a two thousand pound bull, my shoulder always ached. My doctor said the discomfort would eventually fade, but he never felt a bull’s horn rip through the muscle and sinew of his shoulder. The discomfort never goes away.
When we reached the top, Harry nodded his head toward the door. I knew what he wanted. I put my hand over the peephole while he positioned himself in front of the door with his gun extended.
He nodded once more before kicking the door beneath the lock.
“Aw shit, that hurt,” Harry said, grabbing his knee.
The door didn’t budge
I looked at him. “You want me to do it?”
“Fuck no; stand back.”
He kicked it again. This time, it swung open and banged against the inside wall with a loud crash.
Harry jumped in, sweeping the room with his gun. I did the same.
I ducked.
Harry looked at me. “What ya’ duck for?”
“I thought somebody might be in here. I learned in the Army that incoming fire has the right of way.”
“I’m glad you learned something.”
The stench made us both gag.