Tiny had no sooner returned with Professor Murphy's revolver than Lieder announced that he would be pleased to have that preacher Hibbard join their celebrations. "And fetch along those men down at the boardinghouse. Take Bobby-My-Boy with you."
"But I ain't ate yet!"
"Well shovel it down! Then go fetch our neighbors for a night of joy and ju-bil-ation. I'd a hell of a lot rather have them in here drinking and singing than out there skulking around in the dark, plotting to do me hurt!"
While Bobby-My-Boy gulped down his meal, Tiny asked if they should bring in the Bjorkvist women, too.
"No, let's just have a stag party. Only men and whores."
"What about that kid? And the old fart at the Livery? And the one over to the store?"
"Don't mess with the kid. He's all right. He's got grit. As for the old farts? No danger there. One of them ain't got guts enough to pull a trigger, and the other's nothing but an old Jew, sitting there counting his coins and having fantasies about white women."
MR. BJORKVIST AND OSKAR stumbled in through the bat-winged bar doors under the impetus of a shove from Bobby-My-Boy. They stared around, cowed and frightened, but Lieder greeted them robustly, telling them they were in for a rare old good time with plenty of singing and drinking and all-purpose hell-raising.
When, a short time later, Reverend Hibbard was projected into the barroom, the neck of his black alpaca coat up to his throat in result of having been hustled down the street by the back of his collar, the Bjorkvist men had already brought in the weathered loafers' bench from the hotel porch and were sitting on it sheepishly, their hands folded in their laps, one with a split left eyebrow and the other with a split right one in result of having had their faces clapped together like cymbals. Lieder beckoned Reverend Hibbard and Professor Murphy to join the Bjorkvists on his "deacons' bench."
"Now! To loosen things up, I'm going to offer you some spirituous refreshment, and you are going to drink it right down. Peggy?"
"Sir?" Jeff Calder stood to arthritic attention. For some reason, he had escaped inclusion among the townsfolk to be browbeaten and terrorized, and he had no intention of jeopardizing this advantageous position.
"Bring glasses and a bottle of rye for my deacons here, and fill those glasses up to the rim! Let the spirits flow so that the spirit may rise! Mr. Delanny doesn't mind if we drink up his rye, do you, Mr. Delanny?"
Without responding, Mr. Delanny snapped a card from the pack and placed it on top of another. Only Frenchy was close enough to see his hand tremble.
"Down the hatch, boys! Bottoms up!"
The four "deacons" drained their glasses of raw rye, but tears stood in Oskar Bjorkvist's eyes, and his Adam's apple worked hard to keep it down.
"Fill 'em up again, Peggy! Can't you see that my deacons are still thirsty?"
The second glasses went down with difficulty for everyone except Reverend Hibbard, who had often struggled with Demon Rum at close quarters. But even he had trouble draining the third.
"Five glasses is our target, gentlemen. Two more to go! Tell you what, let's make a game of it. Anyone who can't finish his five glasses will have to pay a penalty. Now, what would be an interesting penalty? Hey, I got it! Whoever doesn't finish his five glasses, Bobby-My-Boy gets to cornhole him while the rest of us look on. And you better believe that Bobby-My-Boy will do a first-class job of reaming you. Back in prison, he used to break in all the new young prisoners, and it was truly wonderful to hear those boys yelp and whimper, and to see the tears of gratitude standing in their eyes. " Lieder grinned. "So I guess it's bottoms up, boys!.. one way or t'other."
Tiny and Bobby-My-Boy burst out in moist nasal plosions of laughter.
Downing five brimful glasses of rye in quick succession left the "deacons" slack-mouthed and gray-skinned, and young Oskar could breathe only in shallow oral pants.
"Now then, gentlemen!" Lieder announced, assuming the role of master of ceremonies. "Let us begin our evening's fellowship by raising our voices in what has always been one of my favorites, and I hope is one of yours: 'Rock of Ages.' " He raised his hands to lead the choir. "And let's put some feeling into it, shall we? Ready? And…"
After a thin, ragged beginning, the hymn increased in volume, if not in melodic refinement, because each of the deacons wanted to be heard contributing his share under the forceful conducting of Lieder, whose florid gestures and rapt facial expression were mocking imitations of the choir leader at his parents' strict fundamentalist church, where he used to get whipped for daydreaming when he should have been devoting his attention to the words of the Redeemer. The Bjorkvists didn't know this English hymn, but they mouthed and muttered their way along. Professor Murphy only knew the words to the first verse, which he repeated with such dogged determination that the Reverend was forced to follow his lead. At the fourth verse (actually, the first verse sung for the fourth time), Tiny felt inspired to lead Queeny out onto the floor to dance to the lugubrious rhythm. He was still wrestling her around when Lieder brought the hymn to an end with a theatrical gesture and turned to bow, his arms spread wide as he harvested the applause to which everyone contributed fulsomely, except Frenchy and Delanny, who exchanged hooded glances, and Chinky, who didn't understand what was going on.
It was this singing and applause that had caused the four sitting in the dark, across the street in the Mercantile, to wonder what was going on over in the Traveller's Welcome.
As he made his way back to his table, drawing the thoroughly drunk Queeny along by her wrist, Tiny passed behind the deacons' bench. He snatched off Mr. Murphy's wig and with this trophy he crowned Bobby-My-Boy, who let it remain there, cocked forward over one eye, as he continued trying to force whiskey on Chinky, but she turned her face from side to side to avoid drinking from the glass that clicked against her teeth. Lieder advanced on the table and asked what was wrong. Did this yellow-skinned sperm-spittoon think she was too high-and-mighty to drink with one of his apostles? Without raising her eyes, Chinky answered in a voice so low that she was obliged to repeat twice that she didn't like whiskey. It made her sick. "O-o-o-h, now that's too bad," Lieder said in a tone dripping with compassion. "She doesn't like whiskey! Well, now." He turned and announced to the assembly that once his American Freedom Militia had crushed the combined forces of the immigrants and the Wall Street barons, freedom of choice would become a basic constitutional right… even for slanty-eyed spunk buckets. And, by God, he was going to grant her freedom of choice right now! "Peggy, bring us a glass. Tiny, I want you to fill this glass with piss." When Tiny had accomplished this task, the wincing barber being obliged to hold the receptacle while straining his face away in an effort to avoid the effects of Tiny's unsteady aim-this to the general amusement of his fellow deacons-Lieder set the glass of cloudy liquid beside Chinky's glass of clear whiskey and said, "There you are, my dear. You're free to choose which one you drink. But you are going to drink one of them, you hear me?"