Randhol's Legacy

"Time to go, folks. Five minutes until the locks turn. Drink 'em or leave 'em." He clapped his hands once, a sharp sound that cut through the lingering bass. The crowd groaned, a collective exhalation of stale beer and spent adrenaline. Thirsty stragglers drained the dregs of lukewarm gin while security guards in tight black shirts began to nudge the sluggish masses toward the exit. A lone woman smoothed the silk of her skirt. She didn't fumble for a coat or scramble for a purse. Most of the women dug for their heels or a missing earring in the sudden light, but she remained perched on her stool, watching the migration. The fabric slid over her shoulders as she adjusted her blouse. "You heard the man, miss." The bartender slammed a rack of dirty glasses onto the counter. The woman blinked slowly. She stood, her black heels clicking against the sticky linoleum with a precision that sliced through the shuffle of sneakers and loafers. "I heard him. Just wanted to let the crowd go through first."