Johnny got into his pickup truck and drove into Missoula and on down West Broadway toward the business district. In the distance he could see the huge brown slopes of the mountains that enclosed the eastern end of the city, the trees a deep green in the saddles. On his right the Clark Fork of the Columbia River paralleled the street he drove on, its banks fringed with willow trees. The current was a greenish-coppery color from the first snowmelt, the water braiding between the chains of rocks that protruded from the surface. To the south were the beginnings of the Sapphire Mountains and the Bitterroot Valley, the fresh snow on the peaks a blinding white in the sunlight.
But here, on each side of the street, was a different world, one of $19.95 motels, a self-service filling station that advertised itself as AMERICAN OWNED, and bars where women fought with knives and the clientele came to the door at 7 A.M.
He parked down by the river and entered the back of a bar that smelled of coffee, flat beer, and cigarette smoke that had soaked into the walls and vinyl booths. A swamper was swinging a wet mop on the floor, the bartender loading a cooler with long-necked bottles of beer. A man with peroxided hair, wearing a yellow muscle shirt and stonewashed jeans and polished military boots, split a nine-ball rack with such force the cue ball jumped the rail and rolled across the floor.
Johnny picked up the ball and set it back on the felt.