Three Days Before the Shooting by Ralph Ellison

THAT EVENING I HAD joined a group of reporters for our weekly gathering at the club, where it is our custom to eat and drink and chat. Often we exchange information and discuss aspects of the news which, for one reason or another, is considered untimely or unfit to print. Here we enjoy our private jokes at the expense of some public figure or some incident which in our stories we find expedient to treat with formal seriousness and propriety. From the moment of gathering, our mood had been gay, for we were delighted that at last one of the Senator's victims had succeeded in answering him, even at such outrageous expense. Looking back, it is possible that each of us felt a slight uneasiness beneath our banter; if so, the wild bravura character of LeeWillie Minifees' response allowed us to ignore it. Nor was there reason to dwell upon our inner doubts, not there in the quietly lit room with its spark of silver and crystal, its tinkle of iced glasses, its buzz of friendly talk. It was a familiar setting for a comfortable ritual occasion, and even Sam, our inscrutable but familiar Negro waiter, was an unobtrusive part of it. Now I don't by any means imply that the club is a great place, but it is, nevertheless, a good place; and its food and drink are excellent, its atmosphere relaxing, and it provides a welcome hideaway from the stresses and strains of the profession.

It was this release, this feeling of relaxation which we sought in our gatherings, and if there was something working deep within each of us, some nagging unease, the direction of the conversation diverted our attention. Sam's dark hands had just swept up the empty glasses of our first round of drinks and replaced them when Virgil Wiggins, the economics expert, introduced the incident which determined the drift of talk.