Kiss & Die - Lee Weeks [34]
Shrimp was waiting for him. Mann hadn’t any trouble spotting him – he had slicked his hair back Saturday Night Fever-style and was wearing a vintage black suit, purple shiny shirt, thin black tie.
‘Hello, Boss.’
Mann held him back as he went to walk up the steps. ‘Did you dress especially for this?’
‘Huh?’
‘Never mind.’ Mann smiled to himself.
Shrimp shook his head and followed Mann up the steps to the Mansions.
Within a few paces they were engulfed by the din and chaos of another world. They wound their way through making slow progress amongst the money changers and the touts for guesthouses. The place was like every type of bazaar or busy market, a snapshot of Africa, India, Asia. Together they set up their food stalls side by side blaring out their brand of music. The Mansions belonged to no country. It was its own world under the canopy of fluorescent lighting and overhead pipes. It had corridors like narrow hospital wards. By day the ground floor was crammed with shoppers and stalls selling goods from around the world, food stalls that offered goat and Halal food, all castes, all colours catered for and fed. But there was a tense, precarious harmony.
Mann steered Shrimp through and towards the second set of lifts on the left. ‘We’ll start on the third floor. I have a friend who might be able to help us narrow down the search.’
The lift coming back down was taking its time. They stared at the TV screen above the lift doors. The lift was stopping frequently; people were getting in but then getting out again and sending it on its way. Mann called the security guard over and pointed at the screen. The guard nodded, stepped forward and waited for the lift to arrive.
‘Out of the way, move.’ The security guard pushed the queue back.
The lift stopped; the door opened. A young black woman was unconscious in the corner. The guard stopped people getting in whilst he held the door open for Mann and Shrimp. They knelt beside her. Mann pressed his fore and index finger to the side of her neck.
‘She has a pulse, just.’
Shrimp felt inside his jacket pocket and pulled out a slim plastic pouch. He unclipped the top and opened it out. It had two syringes inside. He tore the plastic off one, pulled off its protective needle cover and pulled up her sleeve.
The queue started grumbling. There were now so many people waiting that single file had become treble. The security guard held his hand up for patience. In this city time meant money, whether you were dying or not. Shrimp injected into the muscle in her upper arm, her bicep. A few minutes later the colour began coming back to her face. She breathed deeply. She opened her eyes and looked at them. She knew instantly what had happened. She tried to stand.
‘You want to wait for an ambulance?’ Mann helped her up.
She shook her head. She staggered forward, leant on the side of the lift wall for just a few seconds and then lurched off towards the mall and was swallowed up by a thousand anonymous people.
‘What did you give her, an opiate blocker?’ asked Mann. They were joined in the lift by twenty others. Mann didn’t bother whispering; out of the nationalities in the lift probably just he and Shrimp spoke Cantonese. With them were three Africans, four Indians and some giggling Filipinas.
‘Yes. Naloxone. I got it when I was in the States. The other is epinephrine – adrenalin. If they’re still breathing you use one. If not, the other.’
They were crammed inside the lift with Africans, Indians and giggling Filipinas. Mann turned to see Shrimp staring at the Africans. They spoke English to one another because they came from different parts of Africa. They were stereotypical in their appearance, striking in their presence; they had ebony skin