The Millionaires (51 page)

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Of course, my eye goes straight to the row of equipment that’s the most outdated.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.”

A
s I read the fear on Charlie’s face, Gallo envelops me in a huge bear hug, purposely squeezing me tight so I feel his holstered
gun against my chest. “Fuck you,” he whispers in my ear.

“So I guess you got what you needed,” DeSanctis adds, just as jolly.

“Of course he did,” Gallo says, noticing the Wednesday tape in my right hand. “That’s why he’s Disney’s best employee. Isn’t
that right…
Steven?
” He says the name with his rodent smirk, then extends an open hand out between us. “Now let’s see what you got there, buddy-boy…”

Thinking about the gun in the back of my pants, I turn to Charlie. Directly behind him and Gillian, DeSanctis moves in even
closer. I can’t see his hands. Charlie’s stomach flinches forward—like someone jammed something in his back.

“I don’t mean to interrupt,” the receptionist says, clearly unnerved, “but what department did you say you were with again?”

“Don’t worry—we’re all friends here,” Gallo teases, still staring at me. “Now let’s take a look at that tape…”

I hold on to it. Annoyed, Gallo reaches down and rips it from my hands. I don’t put up much of a fight—not with a gun in Charlie’s
back.

“Oh, now why’d you go and get Wednesday?” Gallo asks, reading the day on the spine. “I thought you said we needed the other
days as well…” Pointing to the receptionist, he adds, “Can you help us find Thursday through Tuesday?”

Clearly freaked out, the Little Mermaid starts to panic. “I’m sorry, sir, but I can’t do anything until I see your ID.”

“Y’know, I left mine in my other jacket,” Gallo says. “But you can use our friend Steven’s.”

“Actually, I can’t,” the woman replies.

“Sure you can. You already let him have the one for—”

“I can’t, sir. And since this is a restricted area, if you don’t have ID, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

“We’re just looking for the other tapes,” he says, still trying to keep it friendly.

“Did you hear what I said, sir? I’d like you to leave.”

Gallo tightens his jaw. His voice is sandpaper. “And I’d like you to be a good employee and get us what we need.”

“Okay, that’s it,” the receptionist says, reaching for her phone. “You can have the rest of this discussion with Security.
I’m sure they’d love t—”

Gallo pulls out his Secret Service badge and holds it up. “Here’s my ID. Now please put down the phone and get us the tapes.”

Her eyes go from the badge, to Gallo, then back again. “I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to speak to a supervisor…”

“I don’t think you understand,” Gallo says. He pulls his gun from his jacket and points it square at the receptionist’s face.
“Put the phone down and get us the tapes.”

The receptionist drops the receiver as tears stream down her face. “I-I have a four-year-old…”

“
The tapes,
” Gallo growls.

Her hands tremble as she raises them in the air. “They’re in the back,” she stutters.

“Show us,” Gallo demands. Motioning to DeSanctis, he adds, “Go with her.”

Nudging Charlie and Gillian aside, DeSanctis steps between them, holding his gun. As soon as the receptionist sees it, the
tears flow even faster.

“Mickey Mouse smile—gimme a nice Mickey smile,” DeSanctis warns, forcing her to pull it together as he pushes her toward the
glass doors in the back.

“C’mere…” Gallo says, grabbing me by the front of my shirt and shoving me toward Gillian and Charlie. I stumble toward my
brother. Our eyes lock.

The tapes aren’t there, are they?
Charlie asks with a glance.

I brush my hand across my pants pocket. Gillian sees it and grins along with us.

“Stand still,” Gallo insists as I regain my balance and stand next to Charlie. He points his gun at me, then Charlie, but
never at Gillian, who’s back to staring silently at the floor.

“You okay?” I whisper to her.

“What’d you say?” Gallo asks.

“I asked if she was okay,” I growl.

Gallo suddenly starts to laugh.

“What?”

He can’t stop himself. The grin is ear to ear. “You still don’t know, do you?” he asks.

“What’re you talking about?”

“You’re serious, aren’t you? You really don’t—”

“… which brings us to DACS Central—the brain of the entire body,” a cheerful voice announces as the door to DACS swings open.
Behind us, a man with sandy blond hair and a “Backstage Magic” collared shirt leads a group of twenty tourists into the already
cramped reception area.