His plastic mask back in place, he turned and walked away. Though every olfactory nerve ending in my nose protested mightily, I reentered the Weed. My beer still waited on the table, but Ronnie Killstar and the Wonton boys had vanished. I waited and sniffed, but I couldn't smell the mulch drippings that passed for Ronnie's cologne. Given how that stuff smells and sells, the Weed here could bottle its mop sloppings and make a fortune. I shook my head. Never happen — they'd actually have to mop this place.