Loren D. Estleman finally pushed me too far--out with Rebus and all smoking heroes of mysteries

Enough, enough. I would not let even Bob Dylan in the house the last time he came. But I'm not smoking, he said, I'm only bleeding. No, you are reeking, Bob, from your wizened skin, your breath, your afro, your clothes, even your shoes. I know your main Middle Kingdom fan is inside, but you are not coming in. That's what I told him from the balcony when there was an offshore wind.

[I really admired his speech at MusiCares the other day, but that was disinfected by the Internet.]

I will no longer read a mystery in which any main character smokes. The exception will be when I hear that Rankin portrays Rebus as dying a truly agonizing death from throat cancer.