Zorilla At Large! by William Stafford

accentuated by his white vest. His muscular thighs strained against the confines of his red swim shorts. He was watching the people in the pool like a hawk - and they were the prey. He looked ready to swoop and snatch someone from the water at any second, although the couple of saggy pensioners doing laps with polystyrene floats seemed to be doing fine.
    â€œCor!” said Miller, taking a seat without taking her eyes from the window. “He’s a bit of all right.”
    Brough spared her a withering glance that went unnoticed. “Don’t be so sexist, Miller.”
    Miller laughed. “That’s rich coming from you!”
    â€œAnd what’s that supposed to mean?”
    â€œOh - never mind. But you have to admit he is as fit as. I’ve always liked a swimmer’s build, haven’t you?”
    â€œWell...” Brough shifted uncomfortably. He did not want to talk about his taste in men with Miller of all people. He was spared by an urgent buzz from his smartphone. His face lit up to match the screen when he saw who was calling.
    â€œOscar!” he gasped, standing up. “How lovely!”
    He walked away from the table and out of Miller’s earshot.
    Miller’s shoulders slumped. Her own phone hadn’t rung for a long time; she couldn’t remember when. Not a personal call, at any rate. And certainly not a lover. Although she had enjoyed a protracted exchange with some bloke who was trying to get her to switch energy providers the other night.
    She warmed her hands around the coffee cup and gazed absently at the lifeguard.
    Perhaps I should chuck myself in, she mused. At least that way I’d get picked up. Might even get the kiss of life...
    â€œStop staring, Miller,” Brough returned, grinning like the cat that had got both the cream and the canary.
    â€œAll right, is he?” Miller nodded at Brough’s mobile. He pocketed it quickly.
    â€œFine and dandy. Wants me to fly out for the weekend. I can’t wait to see him.”
    â€œYou can’t,” said Miller.
    â€œOh, he’s paying.”
    â€œNo, I mean, we’ve got a case on. Wheeler will never allow it.”
    â€œFuck Wheeler.” But Brough knew Miller was right. All the more reason to bring this case to a swift resolution.
    Down at the high chair, a changing of the guard was under way. Angular Darren was relinquishing his seat to a collection of sticks in a baggy tracksuit and glasses like jam jars.
    â€œIsn’t he more your type?” Brough teased. Miller showed him her tongue.
    The receptionist’s Dedley accent crackled through the air. “Darren to the Olympus bar, please. Darren to the Olympus bar.”
    â€œTenner says he’s gay,” said Brough.
    â€œNot everyone’s gay,” said Miller. “You’re on.”
    They watched the lifeguard bound nimbly up the stairs, taking two, sometimes three, at a time. He greeted the detectives with a broad and perfect smile, a lighting flash of white.
    â€œWho wants me?” he said. He wasn’t out of breath in the slightest.
    Brough and Miller couldn’t help smiling back in admiration. Miller flashed her i.d.; Brough handed over his card.
    The lifeguard’s brow crinkled but only slightly. “Cops? Oh dear, what have I done this time?” He laughed and Brough and Miller found they were laughing too.
    â€œWe haven’t come for you, sir,” said Brough.
    â€œWell, we have,” Miller nudged him. “In a sense.”
    The lifeguard held out his arms, wrists together as though ready for handcuffs. “I’ll come quietly,” he grinned, and then with a wink added, “unless your neighbours don’t mind a bit of noise.”
    Miller blushed. Brough forced himself not to lick his lips.
    Darren Bennett laughed again. He was used to having this effect on people and he loved it. “Please,” he gestured to a nearby table. “Take the weight off and