Bella Prodis's heels rapped a stacatto beat on the pavement as she pressed her way through the throng. As always, she was dressed for business; today in a pinstriped skirt suit with a hem just low enough to remain professional. One hand clutched her attache case while the other reached up to tuck a lock of hair behind her ear.
This was her favorite time to immerse herself in the people of New York. The truly pious, who were outside her grasp, would be at church. Any listless layabouts unworthy of her effort wouldn't have yet begun their days. That left Pride with a much higher ratio of the souls she was seeking- the motivated hopefuls who dreamed of landing an agent such as Bella. Those who would look to her for her support and guidance. Those who would be damned before they even realized something had gone wrong.
The Don't Walk sign was lit at the intersection ahead, and Bella let her brisk pace slow to a casual stroll. On the corner, a saxiphonist blew a bright melody, his hat filled with dollar bills at his feet. The man had a merry twinkle in his eye; this moment with his saxiphone was total happiness. Bella stood before him for a moment, ostensibly listening to him play.
In her mind's eye, she could picture the path she could lead this soul down. A buisiness card dropped in his hat, followed by a heartfelt meeting in her penthouse office. After a contract was signed, the saxiphonist would find himself on the path to sudden fame. He'd be forced into the decision of going on tour or staying home with his family, and he'd ultimately divorce when Bella helped him understand how his wife held him back for her own selfish purposes. He'd fight bitterly with his band on the road, heightening the tension on the tour bus with heavy drinking, or maybe even a coke habit. Finally, citing creative differences, he'd go solo. On the top of the world, he'd open his solo tour at Madison Square Garden, and in a alcoholic haze, he'd crash and burn, playing the worst set of his life. That would send him down to the bottom of the heap. He'd be back on this street corner again, friendless, hopeless. That twinkle would be gone.
It would all be so delicious.
Then the sign changed to Walk. Bella regarded the saxiphonist for a second longer, then thought; Nah. Too Bohemian. Besides, I never work before breakfast. She briskly crossed the street.
Twenty minutes later, she settled on a curbside table at a trendy bistro, gave her order and a few flattering words to her young waitress, and waited for her food to arrive. All the while, her appraising eye scanned the passing crowd for her next client.