The Millionaires - Brad Meltzer [149]
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