The Millionaires

72

Weaving between two princes, Cruella De Vil, a railroad engineer, and Piglet, I’m ahead of Charlie, but trail Gillian, who seems to have no problem cutting through the dozens of cast members who’re pouring out of the area marked “Character Zoo.” On our right, she bolts up a short carpeted ramp that leads to a glass door. “DACS Central,” it says in bold black letters.

“You sure you want to go alone?” Charlie asks me, purposely running slow. There’s no doubt which of us is faster. He’s just trying to stay by my side.

“I’ll be fine,” I insist.

Surprised by my tone, he studies me carefully. “See, now you’re getting cocky.”

“I’m not cocky. I just… I know what I’m doing.”

He shakes his head. He doesn’t like being on the other side. “Just be careful, okay?”

“Fine. Careful it is.”

As we reach the ramp, Gillian’s studying the fingerprint scanner that’s next to the intercom outside DACS. Charlie stiffens. Of all the doors we passed, this is the only one with any sort of security measure. “Is there anyone who doesn’t have one of these anymore?” she asks, pushing some buttons on the scanner.

“Don’t touch it,” Charlie warns.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” she adds.

Charlie knows better than to pick a fight. “Just ring the bell,” he says.

She shoots him a look that’ll ache tomorrow morning. I’m about to break it up, but I’m not even sure what to say anymore. The closer we get to the backups, the more the two of them are primed to explode.

“Ring it again,” Charlie orders.

“I already did,” she blasts.

“Really? Then why didn’t anyone answer?”

She rolls her eyes and once again thumbs the button.

“Can I help you?” a female voice squawks through the intercom.

“Hi – it’s Steven Balizer… from over in Arthur Stoughton’s office,” I say, once again dragging out the big names.

“Extension?” the woman counters.

“ 2538,” I announce, praying I remember Balizer’s direct dial.

Squinting to see through the translucent glass, I spot the woman staring at me from her desk. Thanks to the smoked glass, though, I’m just an amorphous blob with dark black hair. I smile and give her my best Mouseketeer wave.

There’s a short pause, followed by a croaking ringing buzzer.

Behind me, Gillian reaches for the doorknob, then quickly catches herself. She’s not the one going inside.

I step forward; she and Charlie step back.

“So you’re all set?” she asks.

“I think so.”

“And you know where to meet us?” Charlie asks, walking backwards down the ramp.

I nod and go for the door. The longer I’m out here, the more suspicious it gets.

“Knock ’em dead, bro,” he whispers as I twist the doorknob. Just as I’m about to step inside, I take one last look over my shoulder. Charlie and Gillian are already gone – lost among the crowd of riverboat captains and fairy godmothers.

“So how you doing today?” a sweet maternal voice calls from inside.

Following the sound to the reception desk, I find a petite woman with plastic blue-rimmed glasses and a Little Mermaid embroidered shirt. But as I approach her desk, I look to my left and spot the computer servers and video screens that line the other three walls. In the center of the room, back-to-back servers form short library-style aisles and cover up most of the brown-and-white checkerboard floor. From their size alone – each server comes up to my neck – they remind me of an old rack stereo system, or one of those oversized super-computers from an old NASA movie.

Of course, my eye goes straight to the row of equipment that’s the most outdated. On the front of each glass case is an unmistakable sticker: It’s a Small World… Carousel of Progress… Pirates of the Caribbean… Peter Pan… Each attraction in its own antique mainframe. Unreal. They have a computer system that senses storm clouds so they’ll know when to put out umbrellas, but when it comes to their most famous rides, Disney still drives a Studebaker.

“Amazing, isn’t it?” the Little Mermaid asks. “But if it ain’t broke…”

I nod and turn back to her desk.

“Now what can I do for you today?” she adds.

“I called about an hour ago – I’m here to get those backups for Arthur Stoughton.”

She flips through a stack of paperwork on her desk. “And do you remember who you spoke to on that?”

I take another quick scan of the room. There’s a closed door on my right. Nameplate says Ari Daniels. Under the door, there’s no light. “It was with an A – Andre… Ari…”

“Typical Ari,” the receptionist moans. “He’s already gone for the day.”

“Then how do I-?”

“I’ll show you how to sign it out – I just need your ID.”

I pat my chest, then my shirt pocket, then the back of my pants. “Oh, don’t tell me I-” I pull out my wallet and pretend to frantically search through it. “It’s sitting on my desk… I swear to you – you can call them right now. Extension 2538. It’s just… when Stoughton loses his cool – you don’t understand – if we don’t get this reloaded, he’ll-”

“Relax, darlin’, I don’t want the migraine either.” Shoving her chair back, she crosses around her desk and heads for the double glass doors in the righthand corner of the room. Even in Disney World, everyone’s afraid of the boss.

Through the glass, it’s a computer nut’s wet dream. Beige lockers filled with state-of-the-art mainframes and servers line the walls. Spools of uncut red and black wires twist along the floor. And in the center of the room, a laboratory-style workbench is covered with six computers, two laptops, a dozen keyboards, backup power supplies, and a mess of stray motherboards and memory chips. Forget the ancient stuff up front – here’s where Disney’s spending their cash. As we enter, two tech guys – one heavy, one skinny, both surprisingly handsome – are hunched over a flat-screen monitor. The receptionist waves hello. Neither looks up.

“Friendly,” I whisper.

“That’s why we don’t let them near the guests.”

Midway down the righthand wall, there’s a closet marked “Supplies.” Above the doorknob, I count three locks. The last one is a punch-code. Just like The Cage. Supplies, my tush.

“I still don’t see why they don’t keep this stuff in the North Service Area,” she complains as she pulls out keys and punches in the PIN code.

“Most of it is,” I say, checking to see if the tech boys are watching. They’re still lost in their flat-screen. “It’s just safer to have the dailies down here.”

With a twist of the knob, the door swings wide. Inside, two black metal storage racks are filled with hundreds of cassette tapes. Tapes we want; tapes we get. There must be four hundred in total – all set side by side, so only the spines of the cases are sticking out. At first they look like short, squatty cassettes, but as we step into the closet, they’re more like the digital audiotapes Charlie used to bring back from his old recording sessions.

“What was it you were looking for again?” the receptionist asks.

“T-The Intranet,” I say, trying not to sound overwhelmed.

She runs her fingers across the laser-printed labels that’re scotch-taped to the edge of each shelf. Alien Encounter… Buzz Lightyear… Country Bear Jamboree.. .

“Dis-web1,” she announces, pointing to a collection of seven tapes. The spine of each case is labeled with a different day of the week, Monday through Sunday.

“Which day do you need?”

If I had my choice, I’d take them all, but for now, it has to be one day at a time. “Yesterday,” I tell her. “Definitely yesterday.”

She slides out the case marked “Wednesday,” checks to make sure the tape’s inside, then unhooks a clipboard that’s Velcroed to the side of the storage rack. “Just fill it out,” she says, handing me both the clipboard and the tape. “And don’t forget to put your extension.”

My fist wraps around the plastic case of the backup, and I have to fight myself to stay calm. There’s still plenty to do before we-

A high-pitched chime rings from the front room. Doorbell.

My groin aches. I start scribbling as fast as I can on the sign-in sheet.

“Can one of you guys get that?” the receptionist calls out to the tech boys.

Neither of them looks up.

The doorbell rings again and my guide rolls her eyes. “Excuse me one sec,” she says, heading out to the front room.

Alone in the closet, I lean outside and try to hear who’s there. No arguing, no commotion. It’s still okay. Over my shoulder, I eye the other six tapes. The rest of the proof – and the only way to be absolutely safe.

I take one last look at the tech boys. They couldn’t care less. Then I turn back to the tapes. If I’m going to pull this off, it’ll have to be quick.

Yanking the “Tuesday” cassette from the shelf, I pop the case open, stuff the tape in my pants pocket, and shove the empty case back on the shelf. Tape by tape, I work my way through the week, until my pockets are full, and all six cases are empty. When I’m done, I grab the Wednesday tape and-

“Steven…?” the receptionist calls from the front room.

“Coming!” I answer, racing from the closet as soon as I hear my fake name. Trying not to look too rushed, I slow it down through the double glass doors and calmly reenter the main room.

“Just in time,” she says. “Your friends are here.”

I turn the corner and stop mid-step. My hands bunch angrily into fists.

“W-We just wanted to make sure you were okay,” Charlie stammers.

“Yeah,” Gillian adds. They’re both standing by the receptionist’s desk, but neither of them is moving.

What’re you doing here? I glare at Charlie.

He shakes his head, refusing to answer.

“So it sounds like you’re having quite a party tonight,” the receptionist says.

Party?

And that’s when I see them. They turn the corner and move in close behind Charlie and Gillian. Oh, God.

“There’s our boy!” Gallo sings, stepping forward with a limp and a dark grin. “We were starting to get worried about you.”