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The Tinkerer's words made every one of Old White's men hesitate.
If nobody else had been there, maybe things would've been different. But with a crowd watching, whoever made a move would be handing the others a golden opportunity to avenge their boss and, in the process, climb into his place. So nobody dared act.
Even enraged, Old White suddenly understood his predicament. He glared at the other medical staff and cursed, "Fuck! Damn it! Goddamn it! Which one of you can finish this operation?"
The assistant doctors and nurses, terrified of getting involved, backed away as if burned. If this had been a simple operation—an appendectomy or the like—they would've jumped in. But a hilar cholangiocarcinoma resection was a very difficult procedure; none of them had seen one up close. And the Tinkerer's methods weren't following any normal surgical protocol, which only made them more uneasy.
No one in that room wanted to volunteer their life like that. It would be suicide.
Seeing everyone freeze, the Tinkerer grew even more cocky. He grinned and said, "Well? Is a million dollars a fair price? You know—doctors are the ones you don't want to offend." He blew a cloud of smoke directly into Old White's face.
"Don't you have any medical ethics? Have you forgotten the Hippocratic Oath?" Old White snapped.
"Oh, you know Hippocrates? Impressive." The Tinkerer flicked ash onto the man's belly, making Old White scream, then continued, "You don't expect a guy who never went to medical school, who has no license, to have sworn that bullshit, do you? And even if he did—how many people actually keep their promises?"
"You—!" Old White forced his neck up, glaring at the damned quack. Gritting his teeth, he spat, "Fine! I'll pay! A million dollars—I can afford it. Now finish the surgery!"
"Hah. I see your kind. People who talk with their hands in their pockets—see money and they work. No money, you figure it out yourself. Maybe find a nice cemetery and a comfortable coffin, and hire a bunch of pretty dancers to strip on your grave." The Tinkerer laughed, savoring every insult.
"You bastard. If you've got guts, leave me here to die. Otherwise, when I can move again I'll personally—"
The Tinkerer shoved the cigar into Old White's belly. The fat sizzled against the lit end with a distinct sssh. He only asked, calmly, "Personally do what?"
"Pull the cigar out! Take that goddamn cigar out of my stomach! Someone—go get me that million now! Beat this sour apple-eating bastard into paste!" Old White roared at his subordinates.
"You should've brought the money sooner," the Tinkerer said smugly, puffing on his cigar. "Would've saved us the drama—what a mess."
The cigar had been pressed in too recklessly; the ember had smothered against the body's fluids and nearly gone out. While they fetched the cash, the Tinkerer walked out of the OR, lit the cigar with a lighter, then strolled back into the sterile inflatable room—ignoring every rule about asepsis. The unemployed nurses and techs who'd come for easy money watched in horror.
In a real hospital, he'd be sued into oblivion.
But don't think black-market medicine is outside the law—when the operation finished, if they no longer had leverage over the Tinkerer, everyone began imagining how badly they might end up. A few of the weaker-stomached girls had already begun to sob.
Collecting the gang's money wasn't difficult. Their cash couldn't be put in banks, so they just grabbed it from wherever they hid it. Unless they were truly broke, it was easy enough.
Not long later, a couple of men lugged in two heavy suitcases of cash. They set them down before the Tinkerer and unzipped them. "All small bills—one, five, ten, twenty notes. But it's a million total. Want us to count it here?"
The Tinkerer casually hefted the weight, then zipped the bag closed. "Take them out. Put them beside my briefcase. Once I see them down, I'll start."
He tucked his cigar back into his mouth and held his hands out to a nurse, signaling for sterile gloves.
Nobody in that room dared disobey the lead surgeon now. Even the furious man on the table wouldn't risk his newly opened abdomen being mishandled.
Old White's men did as instructed: they carried the money out and placed it beside the Tinkerer's small bag.
With everything in place, the Tinkerer finally picked up the scalpel and began. He removed the diseased bile duct, cut away the abnormally proliferating tissue, and tossed it into the metal basin meant for excised material.
Then he resected the liver tissue infiltrated by cancer and threw that into the same basin.
All the while he lectured in his offhand way: "Your blood pressure's high. Don't be so angry—stress is bad for your body and not friendly to surgeons. Look at those vessels; they're about to burst. If they pop, cleaning that up will be a real pain. Blood-pressure meds don't help much at this stage—keep a calm mind instead."
"How do you expect me to be calm? Tell me! What should I be calm about?" Old White grew more agitated and began gasping.
Under normal protocol, at a sign like this they'd give drugs via the IV to stabilize him. But the Tinkerer acted like he didn't notice—just cutting, ignoring anything else.
The assistant doctors and nurses breathed out at the sight of the tumor removed—but their relief was shaken with fear. With this lead surgeon's cavalier style, would they even walk out alive after the operation?
Just before the final sutures and ligatures, the Tinkerer paused. He turned to the two lackeys who remained in the OR and asked, "Do you have a phone? I just remembered I have a very important call to make."
Old White, who had just calmed a little, flared up again. "Can't you call after you finish the surgery?!"
"If I call later it'll be too late. This call's important—if I don't make it, I'll be unable to sleep tonight." The Tinkerer smiled, cigar between his teeth.
"You son of a—give me the phone!" Old White blurted, but then swallowed the rest of the curse and barked orders to his men instead.
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