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car.  He wanted to take Ivan to a hospital.  That meant the police would get involved, and the police and me had nothing in common.
                  After demanding that he help me, the oversized driver gave me a hand getting Ivan into the elevator.  When he realized that his friend was dying, Peter sobered up right before my eyes.  We all panicked, trying to reach the tenth floor as quickly as possible.
                  The car elevated up each floor.  Time was on my side, but then the elevator stopped.
    On the seventh floor the door opened.  A frail looking woman nervously backed into the car with her eyes focused out in the hallway.  She looked out like someone was after her.  When the door closed, she exhaled thinking she was safe, but then turned and saw us trying to get Ivan to walk.  “Oh shit,” she uttered, then stomped her foot.
                  “Red?” I shouted when I saw her dark mulatto face and unkempt reddish-sandy colored hair.
                  “Oh, hell no,” her Texas twang screeched.  “I entered the wrong damn elevator,” she squawked and tried to walk through the moving elevator.
                  “Red, listen.  I need your help.  He’s about to die on me,” I pleaded, looking for sympathy.
                  She cuffed whatever stolen property she had in her hand. “I really need to be going down, and y’all have me going up.  Please stop this elevator and let me out.”
                  “Red,” I yelled. “Come on, you can’t let this guy die on me,” I pleaded.
                  “He did that to himself.  I—have—to—leave—this establishment, now!”
                  The elevator stopped at the tenth floor.  While calling out his name and holding onto his legs, I used Ivan’s body to push Red into the hallway.  I had to think fast.  I prayed that her crack habit didn’t destroy all of her honor.
    “Look, you and me made a deal.  It’s time to pay up.  You gonna have me charged with a homicide if you don’t help me with this guy.  Look, he’s a White rock star.”
                  “Rock star?” she asked, squinting her eyes until his face came into focus.  “You mean like Ivan from Culture Shock? Ivan the rock star?” she asked with a new interest.
                  I nodded.  “Yeah, ‘we all go to jail for a very long time’ kind of rock star,” I said, struggling to keep Ivan up on his feet.
                  Red started bouncing from one leg to the next. “Hurry, get a room open.  Take his clothes off and put him in a tub,” she said as she ran to the ice machine and picked up an ice bucket. She had a new pep to her voice.
                  I picked the first room I came to on the tenth floor, and thanked God it was open.  The chauffeur and I placed Ivan’s naked body into the tub.  As we looked up, ice rained down over our shoulders and into the tub.  Ivan’s head started to move.  Red raced out of the room to refill the ice bucket.
                  “Where’s his works?” Red asked when she returned and placed the ice under Ivan’s testicles.
                  “Works?”  I asked totally naïve.
                  “Yes, Johnny. His syringe.  His needle.  His stopper—the damn thing he used to put the heroin into his system?”
                  “Oh,” I replied, searching through Ivan’s pockets for his syringe case.
                  “I need salt!” Red yelled out, moving ice closer to Ivan’s body.
                  “Salt?”  I looked at Red wondering what the hell she was talking about.
                  “Hurry and find it.  If you continue to ask silly questions, this guy is gone.” She looked at the limo driver and gave her instructions.
                  Kneeling to remove the