Skater sat at the big round synthmahogany table tucked away in a back corner of Maxine’s. All around him in the bar, razored klashce music imported by way of Jamaica hammered into the dark, featureless walls grimed by the constant use of nicosticks and pipes. The smell of barbecue overrode all other odors, but those of synthwhiskey and beer cut their paths through the montage of scents.