It starts in prison.
Actually, if you want to be finicky about it, it started years before, with the substandard meals and the after-school jobs Len took with the local construction companies because they were the only ones who looked the other way when he had to take a day off because his dad needed him for one of his jobs, with the malnutrition that ate into his bones and weakened his immune system because there was only so much money for food and Lisa wasn’t going to go to bed hungry if Len had anything to say about it, not with how promising her skating instructors said she was.
But it starts in prison, because there's a flu going around and where most people rally pretty quickly, Len gets struck down hard, heaving and hacking and escalating into a nasty case of pneumonia. He has stabbing pains in his chest every time he breathed, a fever, chills, no energy, and worst of all, he’d confidently sent Mick along his way, figuring that he could protect himself for the few months he’d have to be inside.
There was no way that was going to happen with pneumonia in his lungs, which means – and Len hated every minute of this – that if he wanted to survive, he needs to step on his dignity and beg the administrators for placement somewhere quieter than the usual run-of-the-mill jobs, or else the yard would kill him.
He figures he’d be put in the library shelving books or something, but somehow he ends up signed up to one of the stupid learn-a-profession courses that non-profits sometimes wandered by and set up. Normally they're full of people disinterested in actually learning anything but very interested in passing the time sitting in an air-conditioned classroom instead of stuck in their cells or doing other industries, but this class is about math and accounting.
You never saw a room empty faster than it did when it after the announcement gets made about the subject of the class, and Len’s comparing it to rooms where riots were starting, sex was starting, and fires were starting. Mick's very educational as to the last one.
Len hasn’t taken a math class since he dropped out of high school, but a nice empty classroom with a handful of nerds sounds just about his speed right now, even if his last memory of high school math was the fact that he was going to fail geometry.
The weird thing is, though, that accounting isn’t anything like geometry. It actually makes sense, for one thing; Len’s been counting up money for his dad and his buddies for ages, and the spreadsheets and balances the teacher explains make it all seems so much easier than how he’d been doing it. The little two-column chart thing they lay out on day one? Genius. And if there was something he isn’t sure about, he can always look it up in the tax code or the hundred or so treatises on the tax code.
It's weirdly enjoyable. Almost meditative, really.
“You know, this class is really supposed to be focus in large part on personal finance, but would you be interested in learning a bit about estate or corporate finance?” the teacher asks Len a month or so in. “It’s a lot more like what real accountants do.”
“Sure,” Len says.
“I have a couple of harder textbooks for you to read,” the teacher says a week later. “I can probably convince the guards to let you read them in your cell. If you’d like.”
“Sure,” Len says.
“Could you take this exam, Leonard?” the teacher asks two weeks after that. “It’s not math-specific, but it’d sure be helpful if you could.”
“Sure,” Len says.
“I got your results back,” the teacher says a while after that. “We can officially start counting these classes as ACE.”
“What’s that?” Len asks, idly doodling an exploding treasure chest to demonstrate his views on the practice question subject’s financial competence. Or lack thereof, which is more accurate.
“Adult continuing education,” the teacher says.
“Don’t you need a high school diploma for those?”
“You passed your GED,” the teacher replies.
“I didn’t,” Len protests.
The teacher waves a piece of paper. “You did.”
“Wait, that test you had me take was the GED? I thought it’d be...I don't know...harder.”
“Somehow I thought you’d react that way,” the teacher says. “Anyway, if you complete your 150 hours of accounting education and pass the subject matter and ethics exams, all you need is one year’s work experience and you can get a CPA license.”
“Wait, wait,” Len says. “Hold up a minute here. I’m not going to be an accountant.”
“Why not?” the teacher asks.
“You have the weirdest hobby,” Mick says, but he’s also brought food, so Len is willing to forgive him.
“That’s not pasta with sauce, is it?” Len asks. “I can’t drip onto these papers; they’re the only goddamn copies of the receipts this fucker bothered to collect.”
“Yes pasta, ao sauce,” Mick says. “Just a bit of butter and salt. Ziti, too, so you can stab ‘em onto your fork. You need the carbs.”
“Excellent,” Len says, making space next to him on the over-crowded desk. “Just leave it here, I’ll get to it.”
“I can’t believe you used the money we made from stealing a real Van Gogh to incorporate your own fake accounting firm,” Mick says, putting the pasta down and sitting down next to Len’s desk. He likes to be around Len when Len goes, in Mick’s words, math-crazy; he says Len’s angry murmuring and calling down of God’s wrath upon his clients is calming.
Given that Len does people’s taxes for fun, Len’s opted not to criticize in view of not being called a hypocrite.
“It’s not a fake accounting firm,” Len says firmly, because it’s not. It complies with all the rules for a real accounting firm, even the requirement that the owner have a bachelor’s degree – Len got enough prison credits to qualify for the degree and the license both, and he even passed the stupid ethics exam. “It’s a shady accounting firm.”
Because it really, really is. Len knew from the start that he was never going to be hired by any normal accounting firm, not with a criminal record with a growing list of felonies, and he wasn’t really all the interested anyway – accounting is a hobby, as he has repeatedly explained to Mick, not a profession; he’s a thief and that tends to come with weird hours that don’t really gel with the whole 9-to-5 – but even if he wanted to get business to come his own firm, he’d never be able to compete with the Big Four or even the local powerhouses just by opening up and entering the rat race. No, he needs his own niche. His own community of clients.
And Leonard Snart knows a lot of criminals.
Kerach Accounting, LLP, has only one CPA on staff, namely Len, but it also had a very friendly secretary who answers the phone and several slick salespeople that are more than willing to act as the public faces of the business, particularly since no one else would hire them with felony records for theft and scam-running. Len's not worried about them: Mick's his partner, in this as with all things, and his primary job is to be the second round of interviewing when Len's thinking of hiring a guy to make sure they know which side of the line they ought to be sticking with.
They haven't been cheated yet.
There’s a large portrait of Al Capone hanging in the hallway leading up to their small office. Most criminals who aren’t officially affiliated with Family stuff don’t give a damn about taxes right up until you mention Al Capone's little "you can't tax illegal money" spiel, at which point they stop bitching and start listening. Most people nowadays think the man looked like Robert De Niro, so the portrait is labelled “our inspiration” and most people who walk in think he’s the founder of the firm.
Len has a surprisingly broad client base.
(If Lisa hadn’t decided to go into mechanical engineering instead, he’d have offered her a job as well. Oh, well, they still have thieving to bring them together.)
Mostly Len does yearly filings for criminals paying the government its fair cut of their illegal income, which means he only really works for the two months before April 15 – leaving the rest of the year to gather some illegal income for himself – but every once in a while he gets a weirdo project like auditing something for one of the Families who’ve gotten suspicious of their usual tax guys or setting up tax shelters for people who think they’re about to be arrested.
Len even got to help sue the IRS once. Tax controversy work is fun, albeit not a realistic profession for someone who’s face is more usually seen on wanted posters.
This new project, though, is something of a doozy.
“So what makes this project different from all other projects?” Mick asks.
Len kicks him. “Passover was last week.”
“Yes, thus the comment about you needing carbs,” Mick says archly. “But seriously. What’s up with it?”
“Well, for one thing, it’s a corporate filing, not a personal filing,” Len says. “And this asshole wants me to set it up in a trust for some reason.”
“You’ve set up trusts before,” Mick points out. “All those guys who wanted to provide for their kids while they were in the can: Roberts, Khurmi, Fujimoto, Allen…”
“Yeah, but this is corporate,” Len says. “I’ve never set up a trust on this type of scale before.”
“You don’t do Family work,” Mick says, frowning. “How big can it be?”
“STAR Labs,” Len says.
“I’m not,” Len says. “I have no idea why he didn’t just go with one of the Big Four – someone must be laundering money through it or something; I can’t see any other reason they’d come to me.”
“Shit,” Mick says admiringly. “That’s a hell of a scam right there.”
“It’s a hell of an income,” Len says. “Once the damn thing is set up, he wants me – well, my firm – to be the executors of the trust, too, and that means we get a small percentage of the take in exchange for keeping the lights on.”
“Ain’t that hard, though, for a place that big?”
“Nah, I’m just going to hire a project manager to supervise the administrative process – accounts receivable, accounts payable, that sort of thing. As long as STAR Labs has a decent income, which seems likely to continue, all I need to do is their regular audits. Hell, I’ll be able to hire someone else to do their yearly taxes if I like.”
“Gottridge’s kid has some experience managing payroll down at the dockyards,” Mick says thoughtfully. “Of course, no one’ll hire him after that murder charge –”
“If he can make longshoremen listen, he can handle some scientists,” Len says, jotting the name down as a suggestion. “And as long as everyone’s getting paid on time and the profits keep churning out, no one ever asks the accounts payable guy if he has a criminal record.”
“Gottridge’s kid’s no thief,” Mick says firmly. “He’ll be good.”
“Done and done,” Len says. “Let me finish with this paperwork and we can start talking about that warehouse in Shreveport job, yeah?”
“Sounds good,” Mick says. “You know I like jobs where I get to light something on fire.”
“I’m going to murder someone,” Len says.
“I thought you made a deal with the Flash not to murder people,” Mick says.
“I am making an exception.”
“What horrible crime did this person commit?” Lisa asks, lolling around on the couch to look at Len.
“They inherited STAR Labs, but they haven’t so much as looked at a single document the entire time,” Len snarls. “They haven’t sent back a single form that I sent them: not the proxy vote for the shares, not the tax returns, not anything. I’m running this outfit with a string and prayer and the fact that no one pays too much attention as long as the checks keep churning out.”
“Don’t you have an accounts payable guy for that?” Mick asks.
“No, they had to cut down the staff after the particle accelerator explosion decimated their business,” Lisa tells him. "Gottridge managed to parlay the job recommendation Wells gave him into a legit job over in Kingsville."
“You - weren’t around,” Len mutters down to his papers. They don’t like talking about that period of dispute between them, after the job that went wrong, after the fire. It was a bad one.
“Ah,” Mick says, and ducks his own head down and away.
“Anyway,” Len says, focusing the conversation back on less upsetting topics, like imminent murder. “The long and the short of it is, they wanted us – meaning me – to be the sole employee on the matter to cut down costs. Now, this makes sense from an income perspective, although Harrison Wells personally had enough money to last him a good long time.”
“Yeah, I’ve seen his house,” Lisa purrs.
“That’s probably empty now, isn’t it?” Mick says. “We could crash there.”
Len pauses. “…actually, we probably could,” he admits. “Given that I know the lawyer in charge of Wells' probate, and he says Wells had fairly little debt. The house goes to the same fucker that inherited STAR Labs, and it looks like he hasn’t even so much as looked at the inheritance all summer. If he keeps up with that, Wells' house is probably lying free and clear.”
“I’m surprised a scientist is that rich,” Mick says.
“He made good investments,” Len says.
“What, even through the crisis?”
“Let me put it this way: judging exclusively by this guy’s stock portfolio performance, if anyone ever confirms to me that time travel is a real thing, my first reaction is going to jump two feet into the air and say ‘Harrison Wells is a time traveler from the future, I knew it!’” Len says flatly.
“Wow,” Mick says admiringly, clearly imagining rooms filled with money.
Having looked at Wells’ portfolio, Len can’t fault him for it. Not only is Wells clearly either psychic or a time traveler, he also has a photographic memory and/or access to future Wikipedia, because his stock purchases are just so spot on the nose.
…they really should go check out that property.
After he gets the name of the unlucky inheritee from that stupid closed-mouth probate lawyer, finds said unlucky inheritee and murders him.
His work phone pings with a text.
“Finally,” Len says, snatching up the phone. “Now I can find out who the –”
He pauses, staring at the phone for a long moment.
“You have got to be kidding me,” he says flatly.
“What?” Lisa says, scrambling up to come take a look. “Who is it?”
“Bartholomew Allen?” she reads. “Wait, I think I know him – one of Cisco’s friends, right? Team Flash?”
“Yeah,” Len says. “Exactly.”
“Well, that’s awkward.”
“You have no idea,” Len says.
“Are you still going to yell at him?”
“Well, according to Fielding, he’s just finally gotten himself up to fulfill the final conditions of his inheritance,” Len says. “So I’ll give him another month to answer his mail.”
“That’s generous of you,” Lisa says.
“He has a crush on the Flash,” Mick says. "Doesn't want to give up playing with STAR Labs yet."
“Have you never heard of martial privilege, Mick?” Len says disapprovingly. “Why’d I marry you, if not to keep you from sharing things like that with the U.S. government and also my sister?”
“I thought you married me for that thing I can do with –”
“And we’re stopping that line of thought right there, boys,” Lisa cuts in. “And Lenny, that’s adorable, playing cops and robbers at your age.”
“You love it too,” Len says dismissively.
“So no murder?”
“Wait,” Lisa says. “You sign the checks for STAR Labs as the executor of its trust, right?”
“Does that mean you’re Cisco’s boss?”
“No!” Len says.
Lisa and Mick both look at him.
“…I represent the faceless entity that is Cisco’s boss.”
“This is going to be fantastic,” Lisa says gleefully.
“Can we make his next paycheck contingent of gun improvements?” Mick asks curiously.
“No,” Len says.
“Wait till we get closer to April,” Mick says to Lisa wisely. “Then the murder and the extortion threats come out. Especially if they didn’t save their receipts again.”
“They tried to claim ordering four hundred yards of advanced heat-threaded tripolymer fabric in red with yellow piping as a business expense,” Len says. “If I didn’t already know STAR Labs was the Flash’s HQ, I’d know just from that. Business expense my ass.”
“Technically,” Lisa says. “Business, the Flash’s ass. The Flash’s tight, red-leather-covered ass, which apparently goes through more fabric than I buy.”
“I need you to sign something like a hundred papers,” Len says to Barry when Barry opens the door to the West household. “Do you have something against reading your snail mail? You have super speed. You could literally do it in the time it takes me to blink.”
“I…mostly use email now?” Barry says, blinking.
“Financial documents are still transmitted primarily through hard copy, Barry, really,” Len says disapprovingly. “I bet you use an online tax filing system, too.”
“Typical,” Len says. “I almost certainly don't want to know the answer to this, but what are you doing about your, ah, hobby-related income?”
“…why don’t you please come inside so that we’re not discussing my hobby out on the front porch of my police detective foster father’s house,” Barry says, like he thinks Len doesn't know that and/or it'll make him go away. Not this time, buddy.
“Get out of my way, then,” Len suggests.
Len walks in and puts the giant pile of paper down on the kitchen table, right in front of Joe West, who is frozen with his coffee cup halfway to his mouth. “Detective West, good morning,” Len says. “Sorry to drop in.”
“Why are you here?” West says blankly. “Barry, why is he here?”
“I have no idea,” Barry says. “Is there some sort of threat you’re here to warn me about?”
“Yes,” Len says. “A grim, dire threat, the likes of which you have never encountered before. I hesitate even to speak its name.”
West sits up straight and Barry frowns, moving to stand by his foster father’s side. “What is it?” he asks.
Len crosses his arms. “The IRS audit division.”
“…I’m sorry, what?”
“You’re going to get audited by the IRS,” Len explains. “Very shortly, if you don’t file your goddamn tax returns.”
“I did file my tax returns!” Barry protests. "A month ago!"
“Your personal tax returns, sure,” Len says. “But did you file anything for STAR Labs? Which you now own?”
“Um,” Barry says.
“Yeah, you did inherit that from evil Wells, didn’t you?” West says, blinking as if the concept of taxation of corporate entities has been newly introduced to him at this very moment. “When you got the video for your dad, I mean.”
“We’re all very happy that Doc Allen’s free now,” Len says with admirable patience. “The IRS, however, will not care, and neither will your friends when all the lights go out because no one is paying the electric bills.”
“I thought Cisco was paying the bills?” Barry says weakly.
“With what money, exactly?”
“Um,” Barry says. “Good point. But he’s still been getting his salary every month, so someone’s got to be running it!”
“Yes, Scarlet,” Len says.
“Wait, how do you know about this?” West asks.
“Because I’m the one currently running it.”
“What?” West exclaims.
“How?!” Barry asks.
“I run an accounting firm as something of a side hobby –”
“You do what now,” West says.
“– and one of my long-standing clients is a trust that I helped a lawyer by the name of Thomas Fielding to set up on behalf of STAR Labs –”
“…that actually is the name of Wells’ lawyer,” Barry admits.
“– and due to the Particle Accelerator explosion, the trust administrator – meaning me – decided it was in the best interest of the trust to limit the number of employees working on it, due to the reduced income of STAR Labs. Which means I balance the books, I pay the bills, I sign the checks –”
“You run an accounting firm as a hobby,” West says.
“Already covered that,” Len says. "Time to catch up with the rest of the conversation."
“Why do you keep stealing things, then?!” Barry exclaims.
“Allegedly keep stealing things,” Len says primly. “Also, fun. Accounting is only an adrenaline rush between April first and the fifteenth.”
“You’re an accountant that steals things for fun,” West says.
“I’m a professional thief that does accounting on the side,” Len corrects.
“You have a seriously messed up idea of fun,” Barry says.
“Scarlet, I literally dress up as a temperature themed supervillain despite not having any meta powers to explain it away,” Len says. “Why is this news to you?”
“The thieving for fun I can understand,” Barry says. “But accounting?”
“Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it,” Len says. “I’m actually a licensed CPA.”
“Barry, are we in an alternate universe again?” Joe asks.
“Is that a thing now?” Len asks, temporarily diverted.
“Maybe?” Barry says. “But it’s not weirder than time travel.”
“Time travel is a thing?”
“Tell me Harrison Wells was a time traveler from the future and my life will be complete,” Len says, jabbing a finger in Barry’s direction.
Barry blinks. “When did you first figure that out?” he asks suspiciously.
“About four years ago?”
“…wow, I really hate you right now,” Barry says. “What gave it away?”
“His stock market purchase history. Obviously.”
“My investigation could have been so much less painful if I’d started there,” West muses. “Should’ve thought of it.”
“Putting time travel aside – and may I say how much I enjoy that I can say these things with a straight face now? – we need to go back to talking taxes.”
“I can’t believe that’s the surreal part of this discussion,” West says. “And yet…”
“As the accountant for STAR Labs,” Len soldiers on, “it’s my job to make sure everything’s in order. Which it can’t be until you sign the goddamn documents.” He points at the giant pile of papers. “So get to it.”
“Captain Cold is my accountant, and pays Cisco and Caitlin’s paychecks,” Barry says faintly. “How is this my life?”
“I’m STAR Labs’ accountant, not yours,” Len says. “Though on that subject, you never answered as to how you were filing the Flash’s returns.”
“The Flash doesn’t need to file tax returns,” West says.
“You don’t believe that the Flash needs to obey the Geneva Convention, the Constitution, and Missouri state law against unlawful imprisonment without a trial, despite being a cop sworn to uphold those laws,” Len points out. “I’m officially ignoring everything you say.”
“Wait, does the Flash need to file tax returns?” Barry says, looking concerned. “For what income?”
“Tangibly, the key to the city you got last week would count,” Len says. “But you probably also own some intellectual property in the Flash name. Right of publicity, that sort of thing. Assuming you’re getting involved in the marketing there.”
“I’m not sure I want to be involved with that if it means paying taxes,” Barry says. "Can't I just not?"
“Sure. Do you want the Flash to be arrested for felony tax evasion?”
“The key to the city alone…”
“That was a gift!”
“A gift worth over ten thousand dollars and made out ‘in gratitude for services rendered’ isn’t a gift, legally speaking, and you still have to pay,” Len says. “And don’t you heroes usually like being a good example for children of all ages? Tax evasion is just wrong, Barry.”
“I can’t believe this conversation is happening,” Barry says.
“You’re not alone,” West says.
“I’m not saying I won’t make you a fairly legit tax shelter so that you can take deductions,” Len says. “Exploiting the tax code’s loopholes is every good American’s nature-given right. But just not paying your fair share? For shame.”
“…could I hire you do my tax returns?” Barry asks. “For the Flash, I mean.”
“I mean, I could,” Len says. “I charge commission, though.”
“Barry, no,” West says.
“I don’t exactly see that many other options,” Barry points out.
“You could always go into PricewaterhouseCoopers’ offices with your face all blurry,” Len suggests. “Just keep blurring the whole couple of hours it takes to go through your receipts and deductions and –”
“On second thought, go with the supervillain,” West says, wincing in what is clearly an old and painful memory. “The supervillain accountant. Seriously, Snart?”
“Did you know you could probably not pay taxes for the next three years based on the money from reconstructing your house from metahuman attacks?” Len asks in return.
“…tell me more.”
“Why is Heatwave in our kitchen?” Cisco asks.
“He makes me food while I do taxes,” Len says, scowling at an absolutely illegible page on his desk. “We have a system. It works. Mess with it and die. Is this your handwriting?”
“No! I mean –” Cisco squints at it. “Huh, it actually isn’t. I think this is Harry’s.”
“Alternate universe Wells?”
“Your special power is to open windows to other universes, right?”
“Uh, yes. Theoretically. Why?”
“I’d like to get my hands on this alternate universe Wells for just five minutes…”
“Don’t take him personally,” Mick says, walking in with a tray of food. “That’s just his blood sugar crashing.”
“I could mean it,” Len says mutinously, reaching over and grabbing a skewered meatball and a sandwich. “I’m a supervillain. I could totally mean it. Cisco, sit and have some.”
“Why?” Cisco asks, justly suspicious.
“Because I need some scientific bullshit reason to expense a bunch of speedometers, a souped-up treadmill, advanced generators, friction-resistant clothing, and radios from NASA capable of moving at super-fast speeds as something other than ‘Flash team backup materials’.”
“…sitting.” Cisco picks up a sandwich and takes a bite. “Holy shit this is amazing. What’s in this?”
“Turkey,” Mick grunts.
“This isn’t turkey. This is sublime turkey. This is the turkey to which all other turkeys pray they will one day be made into. This is the epitome of turkey. How in the world did you turn what may literally be the world’s most boring white person food into something this delicious?”
“Yeah, but, like, which ones? What brand of turkey did you get?”
Mick blinks. “I just roasted a turkey and cut off slices.”
“Ohmigod. Can you stay, like, forever?”
“Uh, huh,” Mick says skeptically. “And how much are you offering?”
Cisco turns back to Len. “Do we have room in the budget for a chef?”
“No, really! Caitlin was saying the other day that we really ought to invest in a nutritionist-slash-chef for Barry, instead of just her doing it part-time.”
“I’m not a nutritionist.”
“Caitlin basically is one at this point; she just can’t move her recommendations from theoretical to actual food. Problem solved!”
“You’d need better ovens,” Mick says.
“You know what, I’m just going to say that STAR Labs has decided to take credit for the Flash as a result of its particle accelerator explosion and is starting an entire wing of research dedicated to Flash or speedster-related equipment,” Len decides. “Mick, congrats, you’re a research scientist now.”
“Huh,” Mick says. “Can I get a grant for figuring out what foods work best for superheroes?”
“…let me check the Department of Health website. I’m sure something will fit. We'll put you down as focusing on optimizing dietary plans for a speedster's caloric intake.”
“And when do I get to light things on fire?”
“I’m throwing in an entire budget section on figuring out how speedsters react against heat and cold tech,” Len assures him. “Both private and, ah, public tests.”
“I’m not sure I’m okay with that,” Cisco says.
“You have to start taking a proactive approach to these things,” Len says. “Next guy with a cold gun – or cold powers – won’t be as nice as me. We should have a testing lab.”
“...I want a funded testing lab,” Cisco says mournfully.
“Well, if Barry wants to donate Wells’ personal estate into the STAR Labs budget, ask and you shall receive.”
“I’ll text him,” Cisco says, pulling out his phone.
“I’m not sure everyone will agree with you hiring a bunch of crooks,” Len warns.
“Eh, we’ll say it’s part of a rehabilitation project. In the spirit of the Flash and all.”
Len pauses for a long moment.
“Oh, no,” Mick says. “No, Lenny. No.”
“Ramon, when you say rehabilitation project,” Len says, ignoring Mick. “Exactly what scale were you thinking?”
“Scale?” Cisco says, blinking. “I wasn’t being serious. What do you mean, scale?”
“Well, let’s say I could convince a handful of metahumans to come work in STAR Labs instead of you having to trap them illegally in little glass boxes,” Len says. “Would you be interested?”
“You really need to stop rubbing that in eventually.”
“Mick, when I die, I want my headstone to say, ‘The Flash Illegal Imprisoned People That One Time.’”
“I was planning on ‘Leonard Snart: Finally Chilling’, but sure,” Mick says.
“…now I’m torn.”
“I hate both of you,” Cisco says.
“I mean…I guess we are?”
“Excellent. We’ll be eligible for so many prisoner rehabilitation deductions, grants...we might be able to change our status...” Len trails off dreamily, already plotting.
“Wait,” Cisco says. “Exactly who were you thinking we would be hiring?”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“…well, I guess if it stops them from doing crime,” Cisco says dubiously.
“Who said anything about stopping crime?” Len asks.
“Then what’s the point?!”
“It’ll give them less time to do it in.”
“Sold, sir. Can we invite your sister?”
Len stares at Cisco for a long moment.
“I’m going to pretend you didn’t just say that.”
“Me too,” Cisco agrees, looking relieved.