32
NINE
Blok Novak had aged in the years since I’d last seen him, but his taste in women had gone the other way. His companion today couldn’t have been more than twenty, and she towered over him in a pair of platform wedges that would leave her crippled if she stumbled off a kerb.
He’d also taken up golf.
Which was both a good thing and a bad thing.
Good because a substantial amount of business got done on the golf course, and for some reason, men felt free to run their mouths as long as they were knocking tiny balls around a patch of grass.
Bad because I’d picked up a golf club precisely once in my life, and that had been to rearrange the skull of a Polish shipping magnate who’d somehow ended up on the general’s bad side. Golf wasn’t big in Siberia.
Oh, and the Northlake Club was a
