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No one knew exactly when the black clinic in South Los Angeles had opened. But everyone on the streets knew this much — if you were hurt, that was where you went. It was far cheaper than a real hospital, and nobody there asked questions.
Tonight, a young Mexican named Derek, with a badly wounded companion who'd been shot, had no choice but to head for that shadowy, unlicensed clinic.
He didn't trust hospitals. Not because he didn't believe in doctors — but because he was a wanted man. Setting foot in any legitimate medical facility meant flashing ID, and that would have the cops knocking on his door before the night was over.
Sure, he was the one on the wanted list, not his injured friend. He could've just dumped the guy at an ER and bailed. But the truth was, Derek had no idea whether his friend was clean either.
After all, nobody in their right mind went around checking if they were on a police watchlist — and this was 1993. The Internet wasn't yet a convenient tool for that sort of thing. Most people only found out they were wanted when the cops were already kicking down their doors.
So Derek wasn't about to take that gamble. He also wasn't about to abandon his comrade to bleed out — not when enemy gangs were circling. Word on the street pointed him to a place somewhere in the back alleys of South L.A. — the so-called black clinic.
Half of the iron shutter was rolled up, and on it, spray-painted graffiti spelled out one word: "Fixman" — The Tinkerer.
Derek pushed the shutter the rest of the way open.
The place was small — shallow, really — laid out like a butcher's storefront, with a large glass display counter blocking most of the path inside. The case wasn't plugged in; it was empty, dusty, and clearly unused.
On top of it sat a small bell, with a handwritten note pressed beneath it:
> "If you need help, ring the bell."
Derek thought about simply walking around the counter to the back door and checking things out for himself. The door had an ordinary knob lock — which, when he twisted, didn't budge. Locked tight.
He banged on it a few times.
> "Anybody there?"
No answer.
Maybe no one was home. Maybe he'd come for nothing.
Irritated, Derek went back to the counter and slammed the bell — hard. Once, twice, again and again, venting his nerves on the poor thing. The clanging was loud, harsh, almost violent.
Then — click.
The door behind the counter opened.
Out stepped a white man with a strikingly strange appearance: half-white, half-black hair falling across his face, and a long, pale scar running from his forehead down to his cheek.
He wore a ruffled white shirt like something out of a 19th-century costume drama, a black ribbon tie, fitted black trousers, and polished leather shoes.
If he'd said he was an actor from some period play, Derek might've believed it. As a doctor? Not a chance. He looked more like a tailor or a mortician than anyone you'd trust with a scalpel.
In the U.S., if you didn't go through official hospitals, your "doctors" generally fell into three categories:
Those who'd committed serious malpractice or taken the fall for someone else and been kicked out of the system;
Those with some medical training but no license or hospital job;
Or those with no background at all — just guts and steady hands.
And Derek's gut told him this fancy-looking man belonged to the last category. Just a madman with a knife and confidence.
The man who opened the door was, of course, Henry — the Tinkerer.
Despite running an illegal clinic, he didn't sit around there all day. Most of the time, he stayed in his rented apartment or handled his own affairs. The storefront's bell was his alert system — it wasn't a regular bell at all, but one wired with a high-frequency emitter that only he could detect across Los Angeles.
Whenever someone pressed it, the sound would reach him instantly. Then he'd change clothes, put on his "doctor's uniform," and come running — either to fix the problem... or to remove it.
The Tinkerer's sharp eyes swept over the two men at the door. One was half-carrying the other, whose abdomen was soaked in blood. A single gunshot wound — entry only, no exit. The bullet was still inside, bleeding steadily. The other man was scraped up but otherwise fine.
> "Bring him in," the Tinkerer said, stepping aside.
Still doubtful, Derek half-dragged his unconscious friend inside.
The clinic's interior was bare and grim — a single operating bed, one desk with a chair, a shattered glass cabinet, and a flickering fluorescent light that buzzed overhead.
> "Watch your step. Broken glass," the Tinkerer warned, nudging a few shards aside with his boot.
> "What happened here?" Derek asked.
> "Probably a thief last night," Henry replied casually. "Looking for something worth stealing. This is Black turf. You'll get used to it."
He pointed at the bed.
> "Put him there."
The bedsheet was far from clean — dried blood stains spattered across it. The only comfort was that the stains were dry, not fresh.
Derek hesitated.
> "If you don't want treatment, leave," the Tinkerer said bluntly. "Go to a real hospital. He might still make it. I don't force anyone."
After a tense pause, Derek sighed and lowered his friend onto the bed.
> "He's been shot."
> "I'm not blind," the Tinkerer muttered. Then, without missing a beat, he held out his hand.
"Five hundred bucks. Up front."
> "What?!"
> "No pay, no treatment," the Tinkerer said flatly.
Derek's jaw clenched. He looked at his bleeding friend, cursed under his breath, then yanked out everything he had in his pockets and slapped the wad of crumpled bills into the man's hand.
> "You'd better pray he lives."
> "Relax," the Tinkerer said, counting the money calmly. "This kind of wound won't kill him."
Satisfied, he set the cash aside, opened his worn leather bag, and pulled out his surgical tools — ready to work.
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