He was still French, and villainous. I could hear a cat purring.
"Mr. Stingray, must we do this every time I call?"
Possibly, I thought, and flicked my tail in enjoyment. I told him otherwise.
"We have another job for you, Mr. Stingray. A driver. A race car driver called Peter Brock. The flies want it done. They have lost the last of their kind against his windshield."
I understood but--
"Yes, the ocean, we know. But you were so successful last time. We have faith, Mr. Stingray. Can you do it?"
I had final question.
"Colin Thiele, yes, that was one of mine. A personal one. I must admit, I did not know you would be so dramatic. No one has paid attention to the poison in him at all." A laugh. An evil laugh. "Finally."
"I fucking hated Storm Boy."