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State; his location out on 93 near the Polar Caves tourist trap was well chosen, and Arthur knew his business. He had probably the best bartenders around and definitely the best cook. Summertime and ski season he drew a bonanza.
    The drunk lurched up from his barstool, muttered ' scuse me, gotta piss , waved at Arthur, and started weaving his way through the tables toward the back of the restaurant.
    Arthur slammed home the pseudo-antique silver-plated register drawer.
    Asshole .
    The guy looked to be maybe fifty, wearing a red-and-black checked hunting jacket.
    A laborer.
    Scruffy. Not a regular.
    I've just about had it with you, buddy , he thought.
    He tossed the rest of the man's coffee into the sink and rinsed and racked his cup. He poured a short Dewar's rocks for himself and lit a cigarette and then sat down at the bar, waiting.
    How long could a piss take, anyway?
    He sipped his scotch.
    His mother and father had been in again tonight, dressed to what they thought was the nines. Of course they hadn't a clue. Usually whatever it was, was right off the rack at his father's store in Ellsworth. Arthur didn't mind. His staff all seemed to think they were sort of charming and old-fashioned. His parents always called him at home for reservations nights they wanted to come in as though ma
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tre d's didn't exist and he always made a point of being there when they arrived if that was possible. He didn't know why.
    It wasn't as though he'd actually bother to sit down to eat with them or anything. He guessed he just sort of liked showing off the place.
    He finished his smoke.
    Jesus! How long did a piss take?
    He got up and walked back to the men's room to face what he guessed was the inevitable and there the guy was, passed out snoring in the first stall.
    "Hey. You. Up."
    He slapped the man's face. The drunk just blinked.
    God! this guy's shit stunk like he swallowed sulphur pills all day. He flushed the toilet.
    Then slapped him again.
    "Get up."
    He grabbed the guy's arm and stood him up. " Mmmmm ," the guy said.
    "Pull up your pants." He had to repeat it twice. Then he had to tell him to button them and zip his fly.
    "Come on."
    He half-walked, half-dragged the man to the door. He unlocked it and stepped outside. The man seemed to revive a little when the cold air hit him. At least his eyes were open. Arthur looked around.
    No car.
    His Lincoln was the only one in the lot.
    "Where's your car?"
    " Hmmmm ?"
    "I said where's your car?"
    Arthur still had to hold him up. The guy was heavy and he smelled like raw meat.
    "No car. Took my license."
    It wasn't hard to see why.
    "So how'd you get here?" They were out on a highway for chrissake!
    "Fella drove me. Friend a mine."
    "Well, your friend's gone."
    Anthur dropped him. The man crumbled to the pavement. "Hey," the man said.
    He walked back inside and turned off the lights, switched on the security system, closed the door and double locked it. The man still sat there propped up on one arm.
    Arthur had a notion.
    "Listen," he said. "You want a lift? I'll give you a lift, come on."
    The man crawled around to his hands and knees, concentrating, got his legs down under his weight and staggered to his feet.
    "The car's over here."
    He unlocked the driver's side and flicked the switch to open the passenger door. Then he got in and watched the man haul himself around the hood of the car to the passenger side. The man flopped heavily into his seat and sat there looking straight ahead, breathing hard and blinking.
    "' Preciate it," he said.
    "Where to?"
    The man mumbled something.
    "What?"
    This time the guy e-nun- ci -a-ted .
    "First road past Rumney Depot. Number two-two-three."
    Arthur drove the dark quiet highway. He glanced over at the man now and then, saw the head bobbing and the eyes close. Soon the guy was snoring again.
    He passed the Depot and turned off north into the mountains. It was a road he knew. He had taken women here from time to time, to see the sights he would tell