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.
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.