My Infinite Cashback System

4

Baxter’s phone vibrated on the polished mahogany desk of his newly acquired boutique, flashing a short, insolent text from Clara Cooper.

Bring my tortoiseshell sunglasses to the Grand Horizon Restaurant on King’s Way by eight o’clock. Vance is hosting our department celebration in the imperial dining suite, and if you leave them with the valet outside, I will have Vance dock whatever transition assistance Apex owes you.

Baxter did not reply. He opened his banking app, verified that his three hundred and twenty-seven thousand dollar liquid balance was completely untouched after clearing his mother’s pharmacy invoice and his back rent, and slipped the black plastic card into the breast pocket of his newly fitted Italian charcoal suit.

He picked up the small leather glasses case from his desk, stepped out of Kingston & Cole through the front doors, and hailed a yellow cab directly to the corner of King’s Way and St. Jude Boulevard.

The Grand Horizon Restaurant was a four-story establishment built from white limestone, boasting valet lanes lined with European sedans and floor-to-ceiling glass windows that looked out over the river promenade. Baxter walked past the exterior fountain, climbed the marble stairs, and nodded to the tuxedoed maître d' stationed inside the arched entryway.

"I am here for the private room booked under Vance Sterling," Baxter said, his posture straight and his tone steady.

The maître d’ eyed Baxter’s tailored lapels, bowed his head with practiced courtesy, and swept an open palm toward the private spiral staircase at the back of the atrium. "Suite Four on the mezzanine, sir. Mr. Sterling’s guests arrived twenty minutes ago."

Baxter ascended the stairs, pushed open the double doors of Suite Four, and stepped inside.

The room featured a long banquet table laid out with heavy crystal stemware, silver platters of oysters on crushed ice, and half-empty bottles of champagne. Around the table sat twelve junior analysts from the fourth-floor trading desk, flanked at the head by Vance Sterling and Clara Cooper.

Sitting directly to Vance’s right was Damian Hayes, his collar unbuttoned and his face flushed red from several rounds of dry vermouth.

The chatter died the instant Baxter’s leather soles met the parquet flooring. Damian paused with a fork suspended over a plate of smoked salmon, while Vance leaned back against his leather armchair, a thin smirk spreading across his jaw.

"Well, look who decided to be punctual," Vance said, swirling his glass so the ice clinked loudly against the sides. "I told Clara you would jump the second she snapped her fingers. A dog always knows the smell of his old bowl, even when he has been kicked to the curb."

A ripple of low chuckles went around the table, but several analysts kept their eyes on Baxter’s clothes, clearly thrown by the sharp cut of his charcoal wool suit.

Baxter walked forward with measured steps, stopped three paces from the head of the table, and set the tortoiseshell sunglasses case squarely between Vance’s bread plate and Clara’s water goblet.

"Your glasses, Clara," Baxter said, keeping his voice quiet and even. "Do not contact me again."

Clara did not touch the case. She looked at Baxter’s face, then ran an appraising glance down the smooth line of his tailored jacket before her lips curled into a scoff.

"Where did you steal that suit from, Baxter?" Clara asked, tilting her head back with an airy laugh. "Did you spend your last month of savings on a rental just so you could walk into this room and pretend you have some dignity left?"

"He probably used the three hundred dollars he stole from the company car account," Damian barked, slamming his palm flat onto the table so the crystal glasses jumped. "You have nerve walking into an Apex department dinner after I threw you out on your ear this morning, Steele. You think putting on fancy wool hides the fact that you are an unemployed thief?"

"I delivered the glasses as requested," Baxter said, his eyes locking onto Damian without blinking. "I have no interest in your dinner or your conversation."

Baxter turned toward the double doors to leave, but Vance cleared his throat loudly and reached for a heavy silver wine bucket resting on an auxiliary stand beside his chair.

"Hold on, Steele. Nobody told you to run off just yet," Vance said, pulling a dark green bottle from the ice and setting it on a lacquered wooden tray with three empty glasses. "You are broke, your mother is running out of heart pills, and your rent is due. I am a generous man when I am in high spirits, so I will make you a real offer."

Vance pushed the wooden drink tray toward the edge of the table.

"Pick up that tray, pour a fresh glass for Damian, Clara, and me, and stand by the door like an attentive little footman for the next two hours," Vance said, leaning forward until his gold watch caught the light of the chandelier. "Do that, and I will personally slip five hundred dollars in cash into your pocket before you leave. That is more than you made in two full weeks of entering trade slips for Damian."

Clara laughed again, reaching over to pat Vance’s forearm with genuine amusement. "Take the deal, Baxter. Swallowing your pride is the only marketable skill you have left anyway. At least this way, you can pay your landlord on Monday without crying on the phone."

"Listen to the lady, boy," Damian sneered, pointing a thick finger at Baxter’s chest. "You take Vance’s charity, or I will call every managing director in this city tomorrow morning and put your name on the permanent black mark registry. You will not even get a job washing dishes in a municipal basement once I am done filing my report."

Baxter looked at the wooden tray, then at Vance’s mocking grin, and finally at Damian’s smug, bloated face.

A quiet, cold certainty settled over his mind. He pulled out the vacant high-backed chair at the foot of the long table, pulled it back with a single smooth motion, and sat down.

The laughter stopped dead.

"What do you think you are doing?" Vance demanded, his voice hardening as his smile vanished. "I told you to pick up the tray, Steele. You do not sit at my table."

Baxter ignored him completely. He raised his right hand, snapping his fingers once toward the floor captain standing discreetly by the room's service pantry.

The head floor captain, an older man with graying temples and a crisp black waistcoat, hurried over with a leather-bound order tablet tucked under his arm. "Yes, sir? How may the house serve you?"

"Bring three bottles of the nineteen-forty-five Domaine de la Romanée-Conti from your reserve cellar," Baxter said, speaking clearly enough for every person at the table to hear every syllable. "Follow that with two tins of the Imperial Ossetra reserve caviar, four platters of blue lobster roasted in cultured butter, and two rounds of your vintage Louis XIII Black Pearl cognac for the room."

The floor captain stopped typing, his pencil hovering over the digital screen as his eyes darted from Baxter to Vance. "Sir... those reserve vintages and seafood courses require immediate settlement. That order comes to eighty-four thousand, two hundred dollars."

"I am aware," Baxter replied without looking up from the linen napkin he unfolded and laid across his lap. "Open the bottles immediately. Do not keep the table waiting."

Damian Hayes jumped to his feet, knocking his chair back against the wood paneling with a violent crash. "Are you insane? He has forty dollars to his name! He is an unemployed clerk committing criminal fraud right in front of our faces!"

Vance stood up as well, his face darkening with intense anger as he pointed at the floor captain. "Do not pour a drop! This man was fired from my father’s firm five hours ago for stealing three hundred dollars. He cannot pay for a cup of tap water, let alone eighty thousand dollars of wine! Call security right now and have him thrown in jail for dining and dashing!"

Clara shook her head, pulling her chair away from Baxter as if his presence were contaminated. "You have completely lost your mind, Baxter. You are throwing a tantrum like a child because you cannot accept that I chose a real man over a loser. When the police drag you out in cuffs, do not dare look at me to bail you out."