The smells of oils and fuels told him he was in a warehouse. And the smell of poverty—dust and dead meat—cutting through these industrial odors told him this was one that hadn’t been used for any straight biz for quite awhile. Plenty of warehouses existed around the sprawl, some of them working and some empty. A lot of them changed hands regularly, few of them really traceable to an individual owner or a corporation through the straw companies that ostensibly owned them.