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The name "Tinkerer" appeared quietly on the Continental's confidential roster of service providers.
The man behind it — Henry — owed a fair bit to old Charlie Fisher. The grizzled gunslinger had helped him set up shop, even finding a suitable building and personally pitching in to clean and prepare the space.
As the two of them worked inside the half-cleared room, Henry asked curiously,
> "Charlie, you've got the same last name as the hotel manager — Fisher. You two related?"
> "She's my niece," Charlie answered without hesitation. Then, after giving Henry a look-over, he added dryly,
"And if you're thinking of asking her out — don't. You'd be the one getting played."
Henry raised a brow.
> "You two don't get along?"
> "We're distant relatives," Charlie said, shrugging.
"Her branch's the main one — successful, rich, classy. Mine's the poor cousin line.
"She looks down on me, and I can't say I blame her. Nothing new under the sun, right? Just because we share a surname doesn't mean we're a happy family."
Seeing his tone flatten, Henry didn't press further. Family matters weren't for outsiders to poke into.
Instead, he turned to study the narrow alley shop they were fixing up.
> "Charlie, how'd you even find a place like this?"
Charlie shot him an annoyed glare.
> "Wasn't that your requirement?
"You wanted a black clinic — can't exactly open one on Main Street, and can't pick some godforsaken spot nobody visits either.
> "You also said it had to be in South L.A. I oughta ask you — why the hell open in the middle of black and Mexican turf? You worried business'll be too slow?"
> "That was the idea, yeah. I just didn't think you'd actually pull it off."
Right then, the half-open metal shutter rattled as a few men ducked inside — a group of Black guys. A couple had gold chains and low-hanging jeans, the classic rapper look, but the one leading them was in a pressed suit — trying for "respectable businessman," but the street edge still clung to him.
The suited man bumped fists with Charlie.
> "Old dog," he said, voice smooth but with that sharp, percussive street twang. "This the white boy setting up shop here for the Continental?"
> "That's him," Charlie said. Then turned to Henry.
"This is the local boss — Big O."
He didn't offer a real name; in their world, real names were liabilities. What mattered was the reputation of the moniker.
Henry caught on quick. He stepped forward, hand extended.
> "Big O. Pleasure to meet you. Call me the Tinkerer."
He'd come up with the codename on the spot — remembering Alaskan Tom's advice: never give your real name to street people.
The Continental already knew who he was; there was no point pretending there. But out here, caution was a survival instinct.
Big O didn't shake right away. Instead, he said flatly,
> "One rule, white boy — no selling drugs. That's my business."
Henry smiled.
> "No problem. I patch wounds, set bones, fix whatever's broken.
"If somebody's crazy, I can handle that too — though my cure's more… direct."
> "Crazy, huh?" Big O raised a brow. "You treat those too?"
> "Sure," Henry said lightly. "Baseball bat to the head — once if I'm lucky, twice if I'm not.
"If that doesn't fix 'em, then only God can."
Big O barked a laugh, showing off two perfect rows of white teeth.
> "Ha! That's my kind of medicine."
He finally clasped Henry's hand, the grip firm, the grin predatory.
Henry couldn't help thinking, How the hell are their teeth so white? Is that genetics or some industrial-strength toothpaste?
Big O glanced toward his crew.
> "Yo, Tinkerer — you need a sign out front. How you wanna do it? My boys can help."
The young men were already grinning, pulling spray cans from inside their jackets — street artists eager to tag.
Henry waved a hand.
> "Go for it. Just use the name — Fixman or Tinkerer, whatever looks better. Be creative."
> "Yo!" one shouted, and they were out the door in seconds, dropping the shutter to use it as their canvas.
Henry dragged a few clean chairs over for everyone and cracked open some beers.
By now, the cleaning was mostly done, and it was time for a break.
Even though the Los Angeles spring air was still cool, none of them hesitated — beer was beer, year-round.
After a long gulp, Henry broke the silence.
> "Big O, this is my first time doing something like this. I don't wanna step on anyone's toes. Mind telling me what the local rules are?"
Big O set down his can, his tone suddenly businesslike.
> "You're Continental, which means neutral. Normally, that puts you off-limits.
> "But since you're operating on our turf, there are conditions: no drugs, no women. Those are our trades.
> "Stay in your lane, fix people up when they need it, and we'll treat you like one of us.
"If the cops come sniffing, you'll get a heads-up before anything happens."
> "Got it," Henry nodded.
In truth, it was simple. The Continental's trade didn't overlap with street business — that's why they could coexist. If they'd been competing, bullets would already be flying.
Charlie chimed in at the right moment:
> "Listen, Tinkerer. You're free to take outside jobs, but remember — you represent the Continental now.
> "Don't break taboos. If minor trouble comes knocking, talk to Big O first. If that doesn't work, call me or the manager.
> "Think about who your usual clients'll be. People who can offend them usually don't live long — or they're smart enough not to.
> "I'll also show you how to mark the area — Continental shooters will recognize the sign instantly.
"That way, they'll know there's a service provider nearby and won't start fights here. Locals will catch on too."
> "Alright," Henry said. Then, as if remembering something, he turned to Big O.
"One question — is there… some kind of monthly fee I should be aware of?"
> "You mean protection money?" Big O asked, then laughed — a deep, rumbling sound.
"Nobody really calls it that anymore. When everyone's packing guns, protection doesn't mean much.
> "These days, we work through business arrangements — partnerships that benefit both sides."
Henry tilted his head.
> "So in our case…?"
Before Big O could answer, Charlie said,
> "The building's owned by Big O. You'll be paying him rent each month."
Ah. So that's where the catch was.
Henry nodded, smiling as the realization sank in.
Big O grinned again, flashing those shark-white teeth — trying for friendly, but looking more like a predator baring fangs.
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