Puddles reflected the neon above Jon's head, and sent a rainbow of colors rippling outwards beneath his feet.
"Like the psychedelic sequence in 2001, A Space Odyssey."
He smirked at the comparison. To his way of thinking, Times Square was as much a fantasy as the movie. Many a politician had claimed to have swept the area clean of hookers and pimps. But the street people knew better. There was still plenty of flesh being peddled at Broadway and Seventh if a discerning eye knew where to look.
An African American in a wife-beater t-shirt posed beneath the glow of the Virgin marquee, his hands tucked into the front of his jeans, thumbs exposed to point out the merchandise. Jon hurried past, his head bent against the weather. Three steps later, he turned his back to the wind, more curious than cold.
"How's business, Jackson?"
The black man's eyes never strayed from the passing cars.
"Over five Cs so far."
A Beemer with rental tags crept into the intersection. The pro stretched