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‘Don’t be stupid, Jack.’

‘Don’t call
me
stupid, ya stupid bitch!’

Jack . . . Jack Drew?
Baxter wondered. It seemed almost certain, meaning the woman was probably his wife, Liz.

She was struggling to pull away from him. ‘I can’t stand Campanelli,’ she hissed, ‘so you needn’t think I’d have anything to do with him, let alone go out on his yacht.’

‘More lies, Liz!’ Drew roared.

‘You’ve had too much to drink, and I’m not staying here to be insulted.’

‘You bloody well
are
staying if I say so.’ And with that he gave her a backhander across one cheek.

It must have carried a fair amount of force because Liz stumbled and almost fell at Baxter’s feet. He stooped to help her up, before sitting her down at an adjacent table. She was clutching her face and sobbing.

There were several people, mostly male, drinking in the saloon as well as at the bar, but not one of them—not even
the big bartender—moved to intercede on Liz’s behalf. Baxter glanced around at them and shook his head in disbelief.

He walked back to where Drew was standing and looked him up and down. ‘That was a gutless, mongrel thing to do. What kind of a man are you to hit a woman?’

Drew’s face flushed a deeper red as his sodden brain registered these remarks. There was absolute silence in the saloon, and Baxter realised that the other drinkers—those gutless bastards—were waiting for the fireworks to begin. Drunk or sober, Jack Drew had probably ruled the roost around here for years.

‘Who the hell do you think you are?’ the boozy ex-pug shouted.

‘A fellow who thinks that any man who hits a woman is a low creep and a complete mongrel. Not a man at all, just a grub,’ Baxter said coolly.

‘Interferin’ bastard.
I’ll
give you interference.’ Drew rolled up his sleeves. ‘You want to step outside?’

Baxter laughed in his face. ‘You couldn’t walk that far. You’re too drunk to walk straight, let alone fight.’

‘I’ll give you
walk
,’ Drew said, swaying closer to Baxter.

Drunk though he was, Drew still knew how to throw a punch. It was obviously second nature to him, and a hook can do a lot of damage. If delivered properly, it can break a man’s jaw, not to mention put him to sleep.

Baxter harnessed the momentum of the hook with a sharp blow to Drew’s extended arm, turning the ex-pug halfway
around. Then Baxter delivered two massive hits, leaving Drew out cold on the carpet.

A collective gasp rose up from the room as Baxter straightened his clothes.

Liz was still stooped on the chair, her face swelling. The bartender had at least handed her some ice wrapped in a tea towel.

Baxter crouched down in front of her. ‘You want to get out of here?’

She nodded, then smiled as best she could. Tears were streaming down her face, so he handed her a wad of napkins from the bar. Once she’d dried her eyes, he held his arm out for her to take and steered her outside. ‘Your husband won’t be in a fit state to drive you anywhere for quite a while,’ he said. ‘I can take you home.’

‘That’s very sweet of you, but I’m fine. Our car’s just over there.’

She started walking across the hotel courtyard and he stayed by her side. He honestly didn’t think she was up to driving—her right eye was swollen shut, and at the very least she’d be pretty uncomfortable without the ice she was pressing to her face.

‘I’ll be happier to know you’re home safely,’ he said.

But Liz’s attention was suddenly elsewhere. ‘Oh, Christ,’ she muttered.

He glanced around. ‘What’s the problem?’

‘It’s coming towards us. That big fellow and his sidekick.’

‘HEY
YOU
,’ a huge voice boomed across the hotel courtyard. ‘What are you doing with that woman?’

‘Keep walking,’ Baxter said softly. ‘Take no notice of him. Is it Campanelli?’

‘Yes, that’s Campanelli.’ Liz was shaking.

Baxter opened the car door for her, and then turned around and took in the two men behind him. Campanelli was very stout with a slightly reddish complexion; he looked like an Italian tenor beginning to put on weight. He was dressed in an ill-fitting but expensive suit. His companion was a thickset thug with ginger hair and mean eyes.

‘Are you a relation of this lady?’ Baxter asked Campanelli.

‘No, but what are you doing with her?’ the man retorted arrogantly.

‘It’s none of your business what I’m doing with her, but as she and her husband aren’t in a fit state to drive, I’m taking the lady home. That satisfy you?’

‘The hell it does.’

Baxter straightened to his full height and glared down at Campanelli. ‘I’ve answered your question and my advice is for you to waddle off home, Fatso. If you stay here, you’ll find yourself in a heap of trouble.’

‘Skeeter,’ Campanelli said harshly, looking at his goon, ‘feed this clown a knuckle sandwich.’

Skeeter rushed forward and threw a roundhouse punch that missed Baxter by a metre or so. As the goon prepared to
throw another, Baxter gave him a terrific blow that virtually lifted him off his feet, then dumped him on the ground.

‘Are you hard of hearing, Campanelli?’ Baxter asked calmly. ‘I told you to waddle off home. You’ve got no business here.’

Wide-eyed, Campanelli looked at his man on the ground. Then he lunged at Baxter. Keeping his cool, Baxter stepped to one side, slapping Campanelli on one side of the face, then the other—very substantial slaps that flipped the big man around.

‘Get going, Fatso,’ Baxter said, and kicked him in the backside.

This threw Campanelli off balance, and he fell facedown on the ground.

By now everyone from the bar was crowded outside the hotel, watching and whispering—and sniggering. Campanelli’s face flushed beetroot red. The whole town would soon know that he’d been made to look ineffective.

‘By Christ, I’ll get you, you bastard,’ he muttered under his breath, so that only Baxter could hear, as he got up and staggered towards his shiny blue Mercedes. He slid in and backed out of the courtyard without showing a skerrick of concern for Skeeter.

As the Mercedes sped off, a white police car skidded to a stop in the courtyard. A tall, middle-aged officer got out and came across to where Baxter was standing over the fallen thug.

‘What’s going on here?’ the officer asked. ‘Why was Mr Campanelli on the ground? And that other man, what’s wrong with him?’

Baxter looked the policeman up and down before answering. ‘Who are you? Just so I know who I’m talking to.’

‘Sergeant Ron Cross.’ He held up his identification.

CHAPTER TEN

Alarm bells rang in Baxter’s head.

‘And your name, sir?’ Cross asked, his blue eyes cold and hard.

‘Greg Baxter.’

Cross took out a notepad and pen, writing it down. ‘Well, Mr Baxter, you can either explain yourself here or down at the station.’

Baxter called out to Liz, who was sitting in the car with the door open. ‘Excuse me, Mrs Drew? This officer needs to talk to both of us.’

‘No worries,’ Liz called back, and gestured for the two men to walk over.

She gave Cross a wary half-smile as he nodded a curt greeting and asked for her statement. Once she’d laid out the
facts, an amused twinkle appeared in her good eye. ‘This man also kicked Mr Campanelli in the backside, Sergeant.’

‘I see,’ Cross said, staring at Baxter with respect, but also a challenge. ‘Do you have anything to add?’

When Baxter shook his head, Cross asked how he could be contacted. Baxter provided his phone number and said, ‘I’m out at the old Carpenter place, working away at a novel, so you can reach me there pretty much anytime.’

If Cross was on the take, the whole drug ring would now be aware of exactly the kind of man who’d bought their coveted property. They weren’t likely to approach Baxter now—well, not in a friendly way.

•

As he pulled his car out of the courtyard, Baxter smiled across at Liz Drew. ‘Well, now, the fat is well and truly in the fire. And by the way, I’m Greg Baxter.’

‘Liz Drew,’ she said. ‘But you seem to know that already.’

‘I’ve heard a lot about you.’

‘What have you heard, Mr Baxter?’

‘Greg, please. What have I heard?’ He didn’t want to bring up Jack. ‘Mostly that you’re a great-looking woman. But they haven’t done you justice.’

She smiled and winced, pressing the half-melted ice against her face.

They were driving down Moondilla’s main street. ‘Where do I take you?’ Baxter asked, and she gave him some directions.

‘It really is very sweet of you to go to this bother,’ she added.

‘It’s no bother. None at all.’

‘I meant intervening with Jack.’

‘That was no bother either,’ Baxter said, and then couldn’t help asking, ‘How did you get mixed up with a boozy husband like that?’

‘It’s too long a story to tell now.’

He’d thought she might say that. ‘That’s fine. Ah, here we are.’ He pulled up outside a well-presented timber home.

‘Would you like to come in for lunch or a cup of coffee?’ Liz asked.

‘No thanks, I’ve got to get back to my writing.’ The truth was, he didn’t feel comfortable being alone with a married woman in her house, even though her husband was a creep. Baxter had very strict rules about that sort of thing. He also didn’t want Liz to act the hostess when she needed some peace.

‘Fair enough.’ Liz started to get out of the car, then turned back to him. She seemed flustered. ‘Look, again, thanks very much for taking my part. Nobody in town has ever opposed Jack.’ She paused, frowning. ‘Well, that’s not exactly true. Jack and Campanelli had a big fight once.’

‘What about?’

‘Me. Campanelli’s always been crooked on me marrying Jack. He wanted me when I was with the country and western troupe—he came to all of our shows.’

Baxter raised a querying eyebrow.

‘I used to sing,’ she explained, a sad and faraway look in her eyes that reminded him of Julie. ‘Anyway, Campanelli wouldn’t have married me. He wanted me for . . . well, other reasons.’ She seemed very uncomfortable.

‘You don’t have to explain anything.’

‘I feel I do,’ she said.

‘Not today, anyway. You should rest.’ Baxter grinned reassuringly. ‘The other thing is, I’ve got a big dog I left at home, Chief. He’ll be getting worried about me.’

Liz laughed. ‘That’s the first time I’ve heard that excuse. He must be some dog. What kind is he?’

‘A German Shepherd bred from imported stock.’

‘Ah, I love that breed. We had mostly kelpie and cattle dog cross at home in Queensland. We needed them for the herd.’

It sounded like she was an Outback girl, raised on a station. ‘I should think a cattle dog would be a very handy acquisition. Keep the likes of Campanelli in line,’ Baxter said and smiled.

Liz smiled too. ‘I’m very pleased to have met you, Greg. In fact, I’d say you’re the most interesting man I’ve ever met in Moondilla. And that includes my husband.’

‘Thanks,’ Baxter said, ‘but I’m also sorry to hear that.’

‘Well.’ Liz sighed. ‘Jack’s not bad when he’s not drinking. He helps keep the place tidy and all. The problem is, it’s not too often these days that he
isn’t
drinking.’ She dabbed at her sore face, checking the damage in the car mirror. ‘I’d be much happier if he just went off and fished. He’s got a little boat and he’s a good mechanic. Maybe not as good as Steve
Lewis, but good enough. He can fix just about anything, from lawnmowers to council bulldozers. Why he’s on the grog beats me. But that’s men for you.’

Baxter shook his head firmly. ‘I don’t know the first thing about engines, but I don’t drink. When you’re ranked as high as I am in martial arts, you’re supposed to lead an exemplary life. That’s according to Eastern teaching. Can’t say I do it perfectly—it’s hard in Western society—but I do my best. No smoking, no drinking and no junk food.’

Liz grinned as she got out of the car. ‘You sound too good to be true.’

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Back at home, Baxter was preoccupied with the layout of his book—principally, how to end it. He’d come across many otherwise good books that ended very poorly, so he was putting a lot of effort into concluding the book he’d come to think of as
River of Dreams
.

He’d already decided, after weeks of thought, that he should begin the book with the story of Rosa. This had started out as a piece of investigative journalism, one of the most popular he’d ever written. Baxter had titled it ‘Fallen Angel’. With some expansion and embellishment, and with names and details changed, he thought it couldn’t be bettered for the opening chapter.

He was hard at work when the phone rang. It was Julie
Rankin, and she proposed coming out for a quick lunch and maybe a fish.

Well, that was what she told him. Once she arrived, it was soon apparent that what she really wanted was his account of the brouhaha at the Family Hotel.

‘What on earth induced you to take on Campanelli?’ she asked, after taking a sip of white wine and declaring it excellent. Baxter had made a second trip to pick some up, and now he was glad of it.

The answer to her question was straightforward enough. ‘He’s a bully and I hate bullies,’ Baxter said. ‘And besides, I had to defend myself. He’s a creep, Julie.’

‘Granted he’s a creep, but he’s an important creep in Moondilla.’ She was smiling, but her eyes were troubled. ‘He could make things tough for you.’

‘I’ll watch my back.’

The thought of Campanelli ‘getting’ him seemed ludicrous, but there was truth to what Julie said—the man had resources. Of course, Baxter wouldn’t tell her what Campanelli had muttered before getting in his Mercedes. It would only worry her.

A change of subject was in order. ‘Do you mind bringing your wine outside?’ he asked. ‘I’ve got something I want to show you.’ They headed onto the verandah, where Chief was snoozing in the sun. ‘I’ve been working on the layout of my novel,’ Baxter explained, gesturing to the stack of pages. ‘Do you have time to read the first chapter?’

She grinned and stared down at the pages, and Baxter was pleased to see that she seemed fascinated. ‘It’s my day off. Not that it means anything—I’m on call just about all the time. But I’d love to take a peek.’