Marvel: A Lazy-Ass Superman

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At the FBI’s Los Angeles field office, several agents were busy consolidating arrest reports and preparing indictments for everyone taken into custody.

Andrew Saxon’s crime syndicate was a complete network — from top to bottom, every single member had a record. The minor ones were wanted for assault or racketeering, the major ones for murder and arson. There wasn’t a clean soul among them.

Some could be flipped to serve as informants, turned into star witnesses to bury Saxon for good. Others had evidence stacked high enough to go straight to the U.S. Attorney’s desk for immediate prosecution and sentencing.

What caught special attention, though, was a group of former medical workers who’d lost their licenses — the so-called illegal medics captured at the scene. They were the ones who’d assisted Saxon during his surgery.

If they’d merely helped with an unlicensed medical procedure, they might’ve gotten off with a fine or even a warning. Compared to the Saxon gang, they weren’t worth the Bureau’s time.

Unfortunately for them, a large sum of dirty cash — over $300,000, nearly $400,000 — had been confiscated from their possession. To legally seize that much money, the Bureau had to name them as defendants.

Maybe they weren’t truly connected to Saxon’s criminal activities, but until they formally renounced ownership of the seized funds, the FBI could easily use the illegal surgery charge as leverage — a polite form of extortion in a tailored suit.

Whether they admitted guilt or not didn’t matter much. Either way, the money would never be returned. The only difference was whether the Bureau saved itself the paperwork or sent them to county jail first.

But among all the testimonies, one name kept surfacing — a figure everyone mentioned.

The surgeon who operated on Andrew Saxon.

The man known only by his codename: the Tinkerer.

"Did we get the Tinkerer? Or did anyone at least identify who he was?" asked Special Agent James, leaning over a stack of reports.

The younger agent shook his head. "No, sir. All we have are the same leads — white male, a noticeable scar on his face, dresses like a nineteenth-century Frenchman. No arrest, no confirmed ID."

"Damn it." James cursed under his breath. He’d expected that answer, but he still had to ask. "What about LAPD? You think maybe they caught him and decided to keep it quiet — maybe eyeing that cash?"

"Already checked. Same story." The rookie’s tone showed his own frustration.

"So those medics and nurses said the Tinkerer took one of the bags himself — two bags total, about a million dollars. You think that part’s true?"

"Should be," the young agent replied. "Even Saxon’s own men confirmed it. Their boss really did hand over a million in cash for the surgery."

James frowned. "So that fat bastard really had major surgery in a dump like that?"

He could still picture the scene from the raid: that inflatable, portable surgical tent. High-end tech, sure — but set up in a filthy warehouse, it looked like heaven and hell crammed into one space.

The rookie nodded. "According to Saxon’s men — and the doctors from L.A. General — Andrew Saxon did just undergo a serious operation. He’s in recovery now. If he doesn’t want to die from infection, he’ll need post-op care."

"Maybe it was just an appendectomy?" James suggested dryly.

"Not likely, sir. The surgeons at L.A. General said the incision was nearly fifty centimeters long. That’s not an appendix job."

After a pause, the rookie hesitated, then asked carefully, "Sir... it’s not like we don’t know where the Tinkerer’s clinic is. Why haven’t we moved in? Why not shut the place down? What’s the Bureau afraid of?"

James gave him a long, warning look — the kind an old agent gives a rookie who’s about to slam into a brick wall.

"Kid... you really don’t know how things work around here, do you?"

"What do you mean?"

Leaning closer, James lowered his voice. "He’s with the Continental Hotel."

The rookie blinked. "The... Continental? As in the place the Director warned us about during our induction — the one he said to be very careful around?"

"Yeah. That one."

The rookie frowned. "But we represent the United States government. Why the hell would we tiptoe around an underground organization?"

James sighed. "Because they represent another kind of order. Think of it this way — we don’t pick fights with the CIA overseas, right? Even they keep their heads down inside U.S. borders.

"Same logic applies here. Unless we’ve got solid evidence that someone from the Continental has committed a federal felony, the Bureau’s policy is simple: no investigation, no case.

"Otherwise, you think the Tinkerer would still be walking around free? We’ve known the address of his clinic for months. But what are we supposed to charge him with?"

"Unlicensed medical practice," the rookie offered weakly.

James snorted. "That’s a California Business and Professions Code violation, Section 2052. Max penalty: a ten-thousand-dollar fine or sixteen months in state prison. State prison, not federal. Not our jurisdiction."

"Then... we could tip off the IRS?" the rookie said, brightening.

That earned a bark of laughter. "What, you think the IRS is some all-powerful boogeyman? Just because they nailed Al Capone once, you think they can take down everyone?

"Capone got caught because his ledgers slipped up — that’s all. The IRS only prosecutes people already convicted or about to be, to tack on tax evasion charges.

"If there’s no arrest, no bookkeeping, no tax return, they’ve got nothing to work with. You think they’ll open a case just because someone heard a guy made a million in cash? Come on. This is America — evidence first, gossip later. Didn’t they teach you that at Quantico?"

The rookie frowned. "So they won’t even investigate?"

James shrugged. "Their rules are the same as ours."

That answer clearly didn’t sit well with the rookie. But before he could speak again, James added, almost as an afterthought:

"However..."

"However what?"

"If we were to conduct a surprise inspection and find that unreported cash ourselves — now that’s a different story. Once we’ve got physical evidence tying the Tinkerer to illegal funds, we can act."

That seemed to spark an idea in the young agent’s head. "Wait — that seized duffel bag! According to witnesses, it originally belonged to the Tinkerer. Maybe it still has his fingerprints on it!"

James gave a skeptical smile. "You think you’ll find prints on a woven fabric handle? Maybe on the smooth surfaces, sure — go ahead and have the lab run it. But don’t expect miracles."

He said it dismissively, but behind that weary tone, something else flickered in his mind — the thought of opportunity.

If that bag did lead back to a missing million...

Maybe, just maybe, there was room for a little side income.

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