Remember When

mountains.
    The chamber of commerce boasted of the opportunities for hunting, fishing, hiking and other manner of outdoor recreation-none of which appealed to the urbanite in Max.
    If he wanted to see bear and deer in their natural habitat, he'd turn on The Discovery Channel.
    Still, the place had charm with its steep streets and old buildings solid in their dark red brick.
    There was a nice, wide stretch of the Potomac River bisecting the town, and the interest of the arching bridges that spanned it. Lots of church steeples, some with copper touches gone soft green with age and weather. And as he sat, he heard the long, echoing whistle of a train signaling its passing.
    He had no doubt it was an eyeful in fall when the trees erupted with color, and pretty as a postcard when the snow socked in. But that didn't explain why an old hand like Willy Young had gotten himself mowed down by an SUV on Market Street.
    To find that piece of the puzzle, Max shut down his computer, grabbed his beloved bomber jacket and headed out to go barhopping.

2
    He bypassed the first choice without bothering to stop. The forest of Hogs and Harleys out front tagged it as a biker bar, and not the sort of place where the customers talked town business over their brew.
    The second took him less than two minutes to identify as a college den with strange alternative music piped in, and a couple of earnest types playing chess in a corner while most of the others performed standard mating rituals.
    But he hit it on the third.
    Artie's was the sort of place a guy might take his wife to, but not his side piece. It was where you went to socialize, to bump into friends or grab a quick one on the way home.
    Max would've made book that ninety percent of the customer base knew each other by name, and a good chunk of them would be related.
    He sidled up to the bar, ordered Beck's on tap and scoped out his surroundings. ESPN on the bar tube, sound muted, snack mix in plastic courtesy baskets. One very large black guy working the stick, and two waitresses handling the booths and four-tops.
    The first waitress reminded him of his high-school librarian, which made him think she'd seen it all and wasn't too pleased with the view. She was short, heavy at the hip and on the high side of forty. There was a look in her eye that warned him she wouldn't tolerate lip.
    The second was early twenties and the flirty type. She showed off a nicely packed body with a snug black sweater and painted-on jeans. She spent as much time tossing her curly blond hair as she did scooping up empties.
    From the way she lingered at her stations, shooting the breeze, Max bet she was a fount of information, and the sort that liked to share.
    He bided his time, then sent her a winning smile when she stopped by the bar to call in an order.
    "Busy tonight."
    She shot a winning smile right back at him. "Oh, not too bad." She shifted her weight, swiveled her torso toward him in a body-language invitation to talk. "Where you from?"
    "I move around a lot. Business."
    "You got southern boy in your voice."
    "Caught me. Savannah, but I haven't been home in a while." He held out a hand. "Max."
    "Hi, Max. Angie. What kind of business brings you to the Gap?"
    "Insurance."
    Her uncle sold insurance and he sure as hell didn't decorate a bar stool like this one. Six-two, most of it leg, and a well-toned one-ninety, if she was any judge. And Angie considered herself a damn good judge of her eye candy.
    There was a lot of streaky brown hair the humidity had teased into waves around a sharp, narrow face. The eyes were tawny brown and friendly, but there was an edge to them. Then there was that hint of dreamy drawl, and the slightly crooked eyetooth that kept his smile from being perfect.
    She liked a man with an edge, and a few imperfections.
    "Insurance? Could've fooled me."
    "It's just gambling, isn't it?" He popped a pretzel into his mouth, flashed the grin again. "Most people, they like to gamble. Just like they like to believe they're going to live forever." He took a sip of his beer, noted she glanced at his left hand. Checking for a wedding ring, he assumed.
    "They don't. I heard some poor bastard got creamed right on Main Street this morning."
    "Market," she corrected, and he made himself look puzzled. "Happened this morning on Market Street. Ran right out in front of poor Missy Leager's Cherokee. She's a mess about it, too."
    "That's rough. Doesn't sound like it was her fault."
    "It wasn't. Lots of