Chapter 2
The Magnificent Seven, Mangus Style
I’m sitting at the table, drinking coffee, smoking a cigarette, waiting for the liquor distributors to show up. The invoices are spread out like old confessions. Ursula drops into the booth beside me, scooting against the wall, legs propped up on the bench like she’s claiming territory. She looks like she’s been rode hard and put away wet.
“You look like hammered dogshit,” I say.
“Thanks,” she sighs. “It’s a wonder women aren’t fighting in the parking lot for a chance to talk to you.”
I grunt and go back to the receipts. It was a good night. A bunch of weekenders dropped in just because they heard Willie and Ernie were here. Then somehow someone whispered that Josephine Baker might show. It was over after that. Word of mouth is gasoline in a place like this.
We’re in between both worlds—nobody really knows the size of the joint. The place shifts. Expands. Contracts. Accommodates. Like memory. Like guilt.
The door opens, blasting light from the heat tab—too bright, too sharp. Just a silhouette. I shield my eyes.
Bass Reeves walks in.
Not dressed like legend, not like myth—just a man who’s walked through dust and didn’t bother wiping it off. I don’t call him over. He comes anyway. Doesn’t sit. Just stands long enough to confirm he’s real, and not just folklore wearing boots.
He takes the seat across from me—no words exchanged. Doesn’t need any.
The door opens again, except this time, it doesn’t make a sound.
Poe steps through.
He enters like he’s always belonged indoors, even when he hasn’t eaten in days. Coat longer than necessary. Shoes too clean for a man with his kind of imagination. He doesn’t look at us. He looks at the rafters, checking for ravens. Bass nods. Poe nods back, like grief recognizing authority.
Ursula doesn’t greet them. She knows better than to greet ghosts.
I start to say something, but I stop—because someone is standing at the edge of the table.
No one saw her come in.
No coat. No apology. No explanation.
Just there.
Mata Hari.
She’s not posing. Not seductive. Not shimmering. Just still.
Present.
Composed like someone who’s tired of being looked at and never actually seen.
Reeves rises—not out of courtesy, not because she’s a woman—but because someone has entered his perimeter.
Poe stands, too, but slower. Not startled. Just… intrigued. Like he’s been trying to write her for years.
She doesn’t look at either of them.
Her gaze drops to my receipts.
My records.
“You keep records,” she says softly.
“That makes you accountable.”
She doesn’t sit. She doesn’t need to. The room begins adjusting around her—like furniture shifting to make space for gravity.
Before I can recover, the door opens—with noise this time.
Ursula walks back in, not with plates, not with style. But with familiarity.
She leans down and kisses the newcomer on the cheek.
“Hey, Rudy.”
Rudolph Fisher blushes and shrugs like a schoolboy caught passing notes.
I light another cigarette. My hand is not steady.
“Remember my first kiss,” I mutter. “Lime green woman.”
“Lime green chick, huh?” Yuri calls from across the room—thick Russian, thick boots, thicker folklore.
“You eat the worm again?” Roscoe asks. He’s polishing the same glass he’s been polishing since Truman was president.
I shake my head.
The fellas glance at each other—slowly, like the air just changed language.
Oscar breaks the silence.
“It was two worms.”
Everyone nods like that explains everything.
Ursula guides Rudolph to the table. He doesn’t posture. Doesn’t rush. He sits like a man whose pace belongs to him—not to the room.
“Now we’ve got rhythm,” he says, tapping the table twice. The table… agrees.
“You guys hungry?” Ursula asks—already heading to the kitchen before anyone answers.
She won’t cook it—God forbid—but she’ll deliver it. Gifted waitress. Terrible woman for boiling water.
Roscoe and Oscar drift toward the bar, part-time employees who never leave and never clock in. I once told them I’m not paying extra.
They nodded like monks agreeing poverty was noble.
Ursula returns with plates she definitely did not make.
Bass studies his meal like it’s giving testimony.
Poe inhales the steam like he’s trying to decode its loneliness.
Fisher smiles without tasting anything.
Mata Hari watches butter knives like they hold state secrets.
No one speaks.
Not because we’re eating.
Because something is coming.
The door opens a third time.
Not dramatic.
Just right.
Gwendolyn Brooks walks in.
Not like royalty.
Like someone royalty once stood for.
And everyone—Poe, Reeves, Fisher, Yuri, Roscoe, Oscar, Mata Hari—stands.
Not out of politeness.
Out of alignment.
She doesn’t require attention. The room composes itself around her presence.
She does not take the head of the table.
She takes the center.
Because that is where gravity sits.
She sets down her satchel. Folds her napkin.
And without looking up:
“Tell me,” she says,
“why you write.”
No one answers.
Because royalty does not ask questions.
She issues invitations.
And then—
There are eight cups on the table.
And only seven of us sitting.
The eighth cup is warm.
I turn—
And Toni Morrison is already there.
Not having entered.
Not having appeared.
Just present—hands folded, elbows resting, as if she had always been here.
Brooks doesn’t turn to greet her.
She only says:
“You took your time.”
Morrison smiles—small, devastating.
“No,” she says.
“I took my place.”
Then she looks at me.
Not through me.
Into me.
Not asking a question—
Delivering one.
“What promises have you made…
that your writing is afraid to keep?”
No one speaks.
Because that was not a question.
It was a verdict.
And that is where the chapter ends.
Memoirs of Madness 