Camino Real

I hate checking my bank account. But the first of the month is next week, and I got to know what I’m working with. After I got canned from my startup, I survived with some freelance gigs thanks to the MyHyre app. But they dried up sometime ago. And living in San Francisco is expensive. I opened my account: $485. 99.

I need another twelve hundred to cover rent and to eat a little until I get some more solid work. How am I going to get it?

I stepped out of my bedroom and headed to the kitchen. My roommate Anne was on the couch with her two cats, watching House Hunters International.

“You okay?” she asked.

“Yeah, why?”

“I heard you whimpering in your room.”

“I was?”

“Pretty loudly. What’s up?”

“Oh, nothing.”

She eyed me suspiciously. “Okay. You’d tell me if something’s wrong, yeah?”

“You know me, honest to a fault.”

“Sure.”

I stepped into the kitchen and poured a glass of water. After finishing it, I began hyperventilating. I rushed back to my room before Anne saw me.

I paced around my room, studying every little thing I had to pawn. But I own a lot of garbage. I thought about talking to our landlord about a deferment until I had some money. Unfortunately, he’s known throughout the city for high rents and easy evictions. I even thought about breaking into cars down on Grant Avenue. But I don’t have the guts. Anyway I looked at it, I was boned.

A familiar chirp came from my phone. I picked it up and saw a notification from MyHyre. A job request had come through. There were no details, only requesting that I call back immediately. I hesitated. We were warned by the app’s T’s and C’s that such requests were to be avoided. But it had four dollar signs, meaning the money’s good. I sighed, and with a beating heart, called the provided number. It rang several times before someone picked up.

“Is this Taylor?”

The voice was manly and rich, like big money rich.

“Yeah, Icky Taylor, at your service.”

“I’m in need of some assistance.”

“Who am I speaking to?”

“I think it’s best if we meet face to face.”

“Sure, when’s a good time for you?”

“Tonight.”

“Now?”

“Yes. If you want the job.”

My gut screamed not to do it. But I had already made up my mind.

“Where do you want to meet?” I asked.

The voice gave me an address in Pac Heights. I told him that I would be around in twenty minutes. I quietly left my apartment, hopped on my bike, and rode into the night.

It was an ornate brick mansion on Webster Street. I locked my bike and went up to the front door. I tried the doorbell but it didn’t ring. I knocked on the door. It opened a little, and I stepped inside.

I called out. No one responded. I walked down a dark hallway leading to two large oak doors. I knocked. One of the doors opened. I stepped into a messy, dimly lighted study. Someone was sitting behind a large desk. I couldn’t believe my eyes. It was Edvard Tullus, the famous tech investor. He has money in the largest companies all over the Bay Area. He sat in his big leather chair, staring at me.

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Tullus. Your doors were open, and I thought you wouldn’t mind...”

Tullus didn’t say a word.

I stepped closer to him. “Mr. Tullus?”

He was very pale. His icy blue eyes were glassy. I was standing beside him when I saw a large dark puddle forming next to his chair. That’s when I finally noticed the bullet holes in his torso.

I pulled back. Acid gushed up my throat. I ran to the study’s doors, but was stopped by a gun pointing at my head. Its owner was hiding in the shadows.

“Where is it?” he asked menacingly.

“What?” I stammered.

“WHERE IS IT?”

Sirens screamed up the street.

The gunman said something. I don’t remember what because he smashed the gun into my head.

When I came to, I was on a stretcher. My head was splitting. I tried getting up, but the E.M.T’s stopped me. I looked around. S.F.P.D cars surrounded the house, bathing the neighborhood in reds and blues.

“Is he okay?” I heard someone ask.

“They’re up,” said an E.M.T.

A dark-suited man came up to me. He flashed his badge. “Detective Kellerman, and you are?

“Icky Taylor.”

“Sure. Are you okay enough to talk?”

“About what?”

“Tullus’ murder.”

The whole scene flashed before me. I started to feel sick.

“Did you see the attacker?” Kellerman asked.

“Just his gun.”

“We need to get them to the hospital,” said the E.M.T.

“It’s okay. We’ll work it out. Take ‘em.”

As the E.M.T’s loaded me into the ambulance, two things ran in my head: the murderer, and how I was going to pay for this.

I was discharged after observation. Anne picked me up. She showed me the Chronicle’s article detailing the story. A neighbor heard gunshots and reported it; how the house was torn apart. It was spun as a robbery gone wrong. But what caught my attention was how nothing was taken.

A day or so later, S.F.P.D called to let me know that I could pick up my property. They confiscated my bike so they could clear it from the investigation. I went down to the Central station on Vallejo. The desk Sergeant rolled it to me. He had a plastic bag under his arm. He handed it to me.

“What is it?” I asked.

“It was recovered at the scene, has your name on it.”

I took it from him and opened it. It was a small black notebook, covered with powder residue. I opened it. The front page had my name and phone number written on it. But it wasn’t my handwriting. I flipped through the pages. Every single one was blank, except the last one. A 510 number was written on it. In its back pocket was a BikeLink card. I thanked the cop and rode home.

When I got there, I called the number. It rang four times until something clicked, and a tonal sequence started. I was confused. I looked it up on Google but got nothing. I needed help. That’s when I called Jonesy.

Jonesy Barra is a friend who has a computer shop in Lower Haight. I hopped off the bus on Fillmore, phone and notebook in hand, and headed to his shop. He was working on a laptop when I entered.

“Hey, Icky!” he drawled. “How you doin’, honey?”

“Been better, Jonesy. This a good time?”

“Nothin’s a bad time for you. What’s up?”

I explained my situation and played the sequence. “That, my friend, is a phreak play,” he said.

“What’s that?”

“You play these tones over a public phone, trick the system, and get free calls. Like, hackin’, before computers.”

“Free calls? That's it?”

“Some folk would play around with the tones, lead others to specific call lines they’d want to share.”

“How can I figure out which is which?” I asked.

“Find a public phone. Good luck with that!”

I walked all over trying to find a public phone. I was feeling hopeless by the time I reached the Tenderloin. But I struck gold. On the corner of Jones was an intact public phone. I ran to it and picked up the receiver. It had a signal. I pulled out my cell phone, redialed the 510 number, and put it on speaker. When the tonal sequence played, I held it to the speaker. The phone came alive. An automated voice said several numbers and a dial tone came on. After a few rings, a recording played. It was Edvard Tullus.

“Taylor, if you’re hearing this, I’m dead. My killer is Anton B. Curtis. He’s coming to my house tonight. I know what he wants to do to me. The evidence of our crimes is in a laptop I’ve hidden in my bike’s saddle bag. My bike is in a locker in Japantown. You should have my BikeLink card. Take the laptop to the F.B.I. They will want it.”

The message ended. I had no idea who Anton B. Curtis was supposed to be. I pulled out my phone and ran a search. A picture came up. I recognized him. He was my last MyHyre gig! He used a different name though. Beside his picture was an article about his creation of the Camino Real, the dark web marketplace that was shut down by the feds a while ago. He disappeared before he could be arrested. Authorities suspect that another version of the site is up, but were having a hard time tracking it.

This is my real gig. I looked up all BikeLink lockers in Japantown. Luckily, there were only two, located in the Japan Center’s garage. I was close enough, so I ran.

When I got to the garage, I found the lockers. There was a single bike locked up. I slid the BikeLink card into the reader. The indicator read that it had been there for more than a week. The locker’s door swung open and I pulled out the bike. I opened the saddle bag. A MacBook was inside.

I was about to take it out when someone shouted behind me. Curtis was speeding towards me on a slick e-bike, gun in hand. Was he waiting for me? I panicked, threw myself on Tullus’ bike, and peddled out of the garage.

I weaved through traffic on Post Street, hoping it would slow Curtis down. But he sped through no problem. He started shooting at me while hitting the bike’s boost. Just my luck Tullus didn’t spring for an e-bike. Curtis was gaining fast. I needed to make a move. I used an old trick, crushed the brakes, slammed my foot against the street, and quickly twisted the bike right at Steiner and gunned it. I turned around and saw Curtis still speeding down Post.

I wanted to laugh but needed my lungs. I serpentined down streets and alleys, making sure I lost Brooks. I was feeling confident when I felt a sharp pain slash across my right arm. It was bleeding badly. I turned around and saw Curtis behind me, his gun popping off. There was no way I could outrun him now. I stopped.

“Give me the computer, bitch,” he yelled, pointing the gun at me.

What was I going to do?

A cop car peeled towards us and stopped. Two officers got out, guns drawn. It happened so quickly. The cops unloaded on Curtis. He crumpled to the ground. The rush must’ve gotten to me, because the last thing I remembered was the sky and an officer’s face above me.

Curtis didn’t die, unfortunately. He confessed how he and Tullus partnered up to create the new Camino Real; how a profit-split disagreement led to blackmail and eventually, murder. How I got involved, I’ll never know. Maybe Brooks mentioned me before and Tullus wanted someone who could identify him at his house. So many questions.

I dropped the MacBook off with the F.B.I. It had the coding for Camino Real, stealth network relays, and a massive Bitcoin horde. For this, the feds dropped a reward on me: $20,000.

Not bad for a freelance gig.

Anne and me stared at the check. “What are you gonna do?” she asked.

“I’m not sure,” I said.

“But you have to do something!”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. Maybe a vacation?”

It had been a long time since I took a vacation. But first thing’s first, I paid rent.