“But I don’t want an ordinary agency bodyguard. I want the very best man there is. I want the Saint.”
“Thanks,” said the Saint. “But I don’t want to guard a body.”
“Look,” said Pellman aggressively, “will you name your own salary? Anything you like. Just name it.”
Simon looked around the bar. It was starting to fill up for the cocktail session with the strange assortment of types and costumes which give Palm Springs crowds an unearthly variety that no other resort in America can approach. Everything was represented — cowboys, dudes, tourists, trippers, travelling salesmen, local business men, winter residents, Hollywood; men and women of all shapes and sizes and ages, in Levis, shorts, business suits, slack suits, sun suits, play suits, Magnin models, riding breeches, tennis outfits, swim suits, and practically nothing. This was vacation and flippancy and fun and irresponsibility for a while, and it was what the Saint had promised himself.
“If I took a job like that,” he said, “it’d cost you a thousand dollars a day.”
Freddie Pellman blinked at him for a moment with the intense concentration of the alcoholic.
Then he pulled a thick roll of green paper out of his pocket. He fumbled through it, and selected a piece, and pushed it into the Saint’s hand. The Saint’s blue eyes rested on it with a premonition of doom. Included in its decorative art work was a figure “1” followed by three zeros. Simon counted them.
“That’s for today,” said Freddie. “You’re hired. Let’s have a drink.”
The Saint sighed.
“I think I will,” he said.