The Millionaires (50 page)

One by one, she lets each child have his moment. Some want a signature, others want photos, and the smallest ones simply want
to hold her skirt and stare. Next to us, a mop-haired teenage boy is wearing a “
Why do they call it Tourist Season, if we can’t shoot ’em?
” black T-shirt. That’s Charlie when he was fifteen. Next to him, a brother and sister are in the middle of a vicious slap-fight.
That’s us when we were ten. But as Snow White waves to all three of them, they can’t help but wave back. I clock it right
from the start. Eight minutes after Snow White appears—just as the crowd hits critical mass—a college-aged kid with a Disney
polo shirt arcs around to the back of the mob and gives the signal. Snow White looks up, but never falls out of character.
That’s all she wrote. Stepping back and throwing goodbye kisses to the crowd, she makes it clear it’s time for her to go.

“Why’s she leaving?” a clearly displeased curly-haired girl asks.

“She’s late for her date with Prince Charming,” the college kid announces as pleasantly as possible.

“My ass,” Charlie whispers. “I hear they divorced years ago. She got everything but the mirror.”

Gillian slaps him on the arm. “Don’t say that abou—”

“Shhhh—this is it,” I tell them.

A few flashbulbs go off, a last-second autograph is signed, and one final photo is taken by a parent who begs, “Please, just
one more…
Katie, smile!
” Then, like a movie star waving to her fans, Snow White recedes from the crowd, all of whom are still grumbling until…

“Winnie the Pooh!” a little boy shouts as everyone turns. Thirty feet away, the familiar red-shirted bear magically appears
and gets enveloped by tiny hugs. I have to hand it to Disney—they certainly know how to throw a distraction. The crowd runs.
We stay. And that’s when we see the old wooden door. Snow White and the college kid go straight for it—behind Cinderella’s
Castle, to the left of the Cinderella fountain—just under the arches, it’s on the back corner of Tinker Bell’s treasure shop.
The way it’s set off from the main path, it almost looks like a bathroom. But it doesn’t say “Men” or “Women.” It’s just blank.
A blank old door that’s right in front of our faces. Perfectly designed to be overlooked.

The college kid takes a last-minute glance over his shoulder and checks for stragglers. All three of us look away. Convinced
no one’s watching, he pulls open the door and escorts Snow White inside. Just like that, they’re gone.

“Open sesame,” Charlie says.

“You think that’s it?” Gillian asks.

“That’s the question, isn’t it?” I ask, barreling forward.

“Wait!” Gillian calls out, grabbing me by the back of the shirt. “What’re you doing?”

“Getting some answers.”

“But if there’s a guard…”

“… then we’ll say ‘Oops, wrong door,’ and walk away.” I yank myself free and continue toward the door.

“Suddenly you’re worried about our safety?” Charlie asks her.

Gillian doesn’t answer. She’s locked on me. “Oliver, this isn’t something we should just rush into,” she adds as I step forward.

I’m not listening. I just drove three hours on the promise I’d get my life back. It’s all on the tapes. I’m not leaving here
without them. I grab the door and check behind us. The crowd’s on Pooh. It’s now or never…

I pull open the door and turn to Charlie and Gillian. Both of them hesitate, but they also know there’s not much of an alternative.
As soon as Gillian moves, Charlie follows. I’m not sure if he’s suspicious or just scared. Either way, all three of us slide
inside.

Barely lit by a fluorescent light, the concrete landing is dark and empty. No one’s here—no guards and no sign of Snow White.
I check the ceiling and walls. No videocameras either. It makes sense when you think about it—it’s Disney World, not Fort
Knox.

“Check this out,” Charlie whispers, staring over the metal railing on our left.

I squeeze between him and Gillian to see it for myself: paved stairs that wind down four levels. The entrance to the underground.

“If I were six years old, you know what kinda bad dreams this would cause?” Charlie asks.

Without a word, I head down the stairs. It can’t be much further.

“Just take it slow,” Gillian warns as we spiral down into the depths.

At the bottom, we hit another door, but unlike the one up top, this one doesn’t match the medieval feel of Tinker Bell’s Treasures.
It’s just a standard, industrial utility door. I open it and peek my head into a short corridor. On my right, perpendicular
to us, dozens of people crisscross back and forth in an even bigger hallway. Bright costumes rush by in a flash. Echoed voices
ricochet off the concrete. There’s the action. Time to jump in.

Slipping out of the stairwell, I march down our corridor and make a sharp left into the main hallway, where I nearly collide
with a skinny girl in a Pinocchio costume, minus the Pinocchio head.

“Watch it,” she warns as I step on her oversized foam Pinocchio shoes.

“S-Sorry…” Catching my balance and cutting around her, I notice Snow White on her right—a different one, with brown hair pinned
back, a black wig in her hand, and chewing gum in her mouth.

“Kristen, you doing the parade tonight?” Snow White asks, poorly masking a Chicago accent.

“No, I’m done,” Pinocchio answers.

I turn around as they pass, but quickly catch the eye of Charlie and Gillian, both of whom are staring me down.

Take it easy… please,
Charlie glares, clearly unnerved.

I nod and continue up the hallway. They’re a few steps behind me, but they know what it takes to stay invisible. Keep it fast
and keep it moving. It’s the same as when I used to sneak Charlie into R-rated movies. The moment you look like you don’t
belong, that’s the moment you don’t belong.

Back on track in what looks like a pedestrian subway tunnel, I glance up the concrete hallway, which is about the width of
two cars. All around us, we’re swallowed by the colorful back-and-forth rush of Disney employees who’re dressed in everything
from the cowboy boots and hats of Frontierland, to the silvery, futuristic shirts of Tomorrowland, to the simple unmarked
collared shirts of the janitorial staff. I pull off my tie, stuff it in my pocket, and undo the top button of my shirt. Just
another Disney employee on his way to a costume change.

“Narc… ten o’clock,” Charlie warns.

Following the dial, I look up to my left and spot two cops patrolling the tunnel. Damn. Instinctively reaching toward the
back of my pants, I tap my waistband and check to make sure Gallo’s gun is still there. Just in case.

“They’re not armed,” Charlie adds, knowing what I’m thinking.

As the Disney police get close, I realize he’s right. They have silver badges and blue shirts, but that’s where it ends. I
glance at their holsters. Neither of them has a gun. Still, that doesn’t mean we can afford a confrontation. As one of them
looks my way, I lower my gaze to the ground. Stay focused… don’t look up, I tell myself. Thirty seconds later, it’s more than
enough to do the job. The cops blow by without even a second glance, and I raise my head to once again face the labyrinth.
The problem is, I don’t have a clue where I’m going.

Picking up speed and trying to cover as much ground as possible, I walk up the hallway, inhaling the damp, underground air.
From the faded purple stripe that colors the bottom half of the corridor, I’d say this place hasn’t been painted in ten years.
It may be the headquarters for all Magic Kingdom employees, but like the cheap industrial carpet we use in the nonclient areas
of the bank, Disney keeps its money onstage. Still, the nuts and bolts of the park are clearly down here: exposed air-conditioning
ducts overhead, random piping along the walls, and metal door after metal door marked with signs like “Maintenance,” “AVAC/Trash
control,” and “Danger: High Voltage.” Straight above us, kids hug Pooh, and parents marvel at the cleanliness of paradise.
Down here, Pinocchio’s a girl, and the trash chute rumbles so loud, you feel it in your back teeth. That’s what magic’s made
of.

On my right, a black man dressed like a Tiki bird steps out of a door marked “Stairway #5—Legend of the Lion King.” Across
the way, a blond female elf comes through “Stairway 12—Ye Olde Christmas Shoppe.” Every fifteen feet, people pop out of nowhere—and
no matter how calm I’m trying to act, I can’t shake the feeling we’re starting to stand out. I scour the pipes that cover
the ceiling and search for security cameras. There’s only so long you can run around without a costume or nametag. If anyone’s
watching, we’re running out of time. And worst of all, running blind. Three blind mice.

The further we go, the more metal doors we pass; the more doors we pass, the more the hallway seems to curve; the more the
hallway curves, the more I feel like we’re walking in circles. “Park Maintenance West”… “First-Aid”… “Break Area”… Where the
hell is DACS?

“This is ridiculous,” Gillian eventually says. “Maybe we should split up.”

“No,” Charlie and I say simultaneously. But it’s clear we need to change strategy.

Up ahead, an older woman in a Pilgrim costume steps out of a room marked “Personnel.” She looks about fifty years old. I motion
to Charlie; he shakes his head. The older they are, the more likely they’ll ask for Disney ID. Behind the Pilgrim is a girl
in jeans and a Barnard T-shirt. Charlie nods. It’s not my first plan, but we need to make a move. We both know who’s better
with strangers.

“Can I ask you a stupid question?” Charlie says, approaching Ms. Barnard as he bubbles up the charm. “I usually work over
in EPCOT—”

“So that’s why they let you keep the dyed hair,” she interrupts.

Never fazed, he laughs out loud. “They don’t let you have that around here?” he asks, running his hand through his blond locks.
He’s trying to sound relaxed, but from where I’m standing in the corner with Gillian, I see the shine of sweat on the back
of his neck.

“Are you kidding?” she asks. “That’s bad show.”

“Yeah, well, there’s something to be said about bad show,” he nervously teases. “Anyway, they sent me down here to pick something
up from some place called DACS…”

“DACS?”

“I think it’s some kinda computer room.”

“Sorry—never heard of it,” she says as I bite the inside of my lip. “But if you want, you can check the map.”

Map?

She points over her shoulder. Right around the corner from Personnel.

“That’d be great,” Charlie says as he moves toward it. “And if you ever get to EPCOT…”

Don’t make jokes with her!

“… the tour of the giant golf ball is on me.”

“I look forward to it,” she says with a wide Disney smile.

Charlie waves goodbye; Ms. Barnard heads back to the maze. As soon as she passes, we calmly tear around the corner. There
it is—up on the wall.
“Map to the Magic Kingdom Utilidor.”

Studying the layout, I go right for the “You Are Here” sign. The tunnels spread out from Cinderella’s castle like spokes on
a wheel and weave their way under almost every major attraction. Eventually, it looks like the face of a clock. Frontierland
is at nine o’clock. Adventureland is at seven. To make it even easier to read, each land is also color-coded. Tomorrowland
is blue, Fantasyland is purple. We’re in Main Street—burgundy—which corresponds to the burgundy stripe that runs along the
wall. Six o’clock position. Tinker Bell’s Treasures was at twelve o’clock. We ran halfway around the clock.

“I told you we were making a circle,” Gillian points out.

“And look what’s at the far end of the hallway…” Charlie adds. He pounds a finger against the top of the map. The letters
practically jump out and bite me on the throat.

DACS.

Dead ahead.

W
eaving 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.