The Millionaires (45 page)

T
here’re thirty spanking new computers on the fifth floor of the Broward County Library. All we need is one. One computer,
some Internet access, and a little bit of privacy, which comes courtesy of the
Out of Order
signs that Charlie just drew up and taped to the screens of the three computers closest to ours.

“Anyone mind if I type?” he asks, sliding his chair up to the keyboard.

I’m about to object, but decide against it. It’s a simple concession—and the busier I keep him, the less he’ll catfight with
Gillian. Naturally, he’s still annoyed I invited her along, but between his typing responsibilities and figuring out the photos,
he’s distracted enough that he almost doesn’t mind.

“All set?” Charlie asks as Gillian and I scoot our chairs next to his.

I nod, practically bursting with energy. Finally, a can’t-miss.

“Go to www.disney.com,” Gillian says, equally excited.

He shoots her a glare that would carve diamonds. “Really? I wasn’t sure,” he says sarcastically.

I lean in and pinch his back.

Shaking his head, he types the address. The computer chugs to the front page of the Disney website. “Fun for Families,” it
says in gold letters, which are right next to our first pair of mouse ears—Mickey and Pluto sitting outside a cartoon house.
“Where the Magic Lives Online,” it says at the top of the screen. “It better,” Charlie warns.

Scrolling down, there’re three buttons on the Disney Directory:
Entertainment, Parks & Resorts,
and one labeled
Inside the Company.

Gillian’s about to open her mouth. Charlie pounds her with a “duh” glare, hits
Inside the Company,
and takes far too much joy in watching her shut up. I pinch him again.

Y’know, she saved our asses back at the house,
I motion.

She’s also the one who dropped us there,
he glares as he turns back to the monitor and clicks the button for
Disney Online.

As the newest page fills in, there’s a box marked
Search.
And even though we came up short when we showed the photos to Duckworth’s Neowerks buddy, he was still able to pick out the
first of the four.

“Put Stoughton in there,” I blurt, already out of my seat and regretting the typing concession.

Charlie hunts and pecks the words
Arthur Stoughton
into the
Search
box and hits
Enter.

Seconds pass and all three of us glance around, making sure no one’s watching. Four computers down, there’s a teenage boy
testing the limits of the library’s porn-screening software, but he hasn’t looked up once.

Results for ‘Arthur Stoughton’: 139 documents

1. Executive Bio for Arthur Stoughton

2. Executive Biographies for Disney.com

The list goes on. Charlie clicks on
Executive Bio
and the computer pulls up Stoughton’s overpadded résumé. Right next to it, though, is the thing that makes our eyes widen:
the official corporate headshot—identical to the one on the photo strip. Arthur Stoughton. Salt-and-pepper hair, fancy suit,
Disney smile.

“Executive vice president and managing director of Disney Online,” Charlie reads from the bio. “Zip-A-Dee-Doo-Dah.” He goes
straight for the photo.

“Press it,” I agree as he slides the cursor over Stoughton’s face. But as he clicks on the digital photo, nothing happens.
He tries again. Still nothing.

“Are you sure you’re doing it right?” Gillian asks.

“You want to try it yourself?” he growls.

“Relax,” I warn.

He gives me his death stare. “Maybe I don’t want to relax,
Ollie
…”

The porn kid looks our way and all three of us fall silent. The first to recover, Gillian winks at the kid like she’s flirting.
His eyes go back to his screen.

“Just let me try,” she tells Charlie as she attempts to grab control of the mouse. A week ago, Charlie was carefree enough
to share with the world. But after these past few days—as his tongue flicks the beginnings of the scab on his lip—control
is the last thing he’s got left. Especially when it comes to Gillian.

“I’ve. Got. It,” he tells her.

Knowing we need more faces, he clicks back one screen and hits the button for
Executive Biographies for Disney.com.
Once again, the computer pulls up the same photo of Arthur Stoughton. Damn.

“What do we do now?” he asks.

“Scroll down,” Gillian insists.

She taps her fingernail against the bottom of the screen, pointing at what looks like the top of another photo. Stoughton’s
not alone. As Charlie anxiously scrolls down the screen, a pyramid of pictures rolls into place. It’s the full organizational
chart for Disney.com, with Arthur Stoughton in the top spot and the rest spread out below. The pyramid expands to a total
of about two dozen photos: vice presidents and other associates in Marketing, Entertainment, and Lifestyles Content Development,
whatever that is.

“There’s photo number two,” I blurt, bringing it to a whisper for the last few syllables. “Banker guy.”

Sure enough, as I hand Duckworth’s photo strip to Charlie, he matches it up with the picture onscreen. There’s the second
guy…

“Can you say pale, tired, middle-management pencil-gnawer?” Charlie asks.

“Jeez,” I agree. “If I ever get that sad and pasty, put a stake in my heart and kill me with some garlic.”

“There’s the third,” Gillian points out, pecking her fingernail against the company photo of the frizzy redhead. But as we
look back through the Polaroid hierarchy, none of us see photo number four: the black man with the cleft chin.

“Are you sure that’s all there are?” Gillian asks.

Charlie scrolls to the bottom, but that’s it. All we have are the two dozen photos.

“Maybe he left the company,” I say.

“Maybe there’s an even bigger list somewhere else,” Gillian offers.

“Or maybe this one’s just right,” Charlie says as he heads back to the top. Moving the cursor onto Stoughton’s photo, he clicks
the face and prays for some of his usual magic. Amazingly, he gets it. The border of the box moves just slightly.

I shoot out of my seat. “Did that just—?”

“Don’t say it,” he warns. “No jinxes.”

“It’s not going to do any good without the last face,” Gillian points out.

Ignoring her, Charlie puts the cursor on the pale banker and presses the button. Onscreen, the box once again flinches. The
last one there is the redhead.

“Miss Scarlett… in the library… with the lead pipe,” he announces. Staying with the order on the photo-strip, he clicks on
the company photo of the frizzy redhead. The box blinks and I put a hand on Charlie’s shoulder, tightly grabbing the back
of his shirt. Gillian and I lean in close, our bodies draped on the armrests. All three of us hold our breath. The copter’s
on the helipad and gassed to go. But nothing happens.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“I’m telling you,” Gillian says. “You need all four photos for the keys to work.”

Sinking in his chair, Charlie stares blankly at the screen. He won’t admit it, but this time, she’s right. Nothing’s happening.
And then… out of nowhere… something does.

The screen flickers and goes black, like it’s clicking to another web page.

“What’re you doing?” I ask.

“It’s not me,” Charlie says, taking both hands off the keyboard. “This bad boy’s on autopilot.”

Unconvinced, Gillian reaches for the mouse, but before she gets there, the screen once again hiccups… and the Seven Dwarfs
appear in front of us. Doc, Sneezy,Grumpy—they’re all there—each one standing over a different button, from
Community
to
Library.

Gillian and Charlie scour the page. I go for the web address at the top of the screen. There’s no
www.
Instead, the prefix is
dis-web1.

“Any idea what we’re looking at?” Charlie asks.

“If it’s like at the bank, I think we’re on their
Intranet,
”I say. “Somehow, the pictures tunneled us into Disney’s internal network.”

“So what happened to the website?”

“Forget the website—that’s for the public,” I tell him. “From here on in, we’re officially snooping in the private computer
network for Disney employees.”

“Welcome Cast Members!” it says toward the top of the screen.

“What about the guy with the cleft chin?” Gillian asks.

“I don’t think we’re going to have to wait that much longer,” Charlie says as he raps a knuckle against the screen. Directly
below the Seven Dwarfs, there’s a red button at the bottom of the screen:
Company Directory.
“If we’re looking for employees…”

“Reel it in,” Gillian sings.

Cringing at her enthusiasm, Charlie tightens his jaw and pretends not to notice. Even he knows now’s not the time to stop.

A flick of his wrist and another mouse-click take us to a place marked
Employee Locator.
From there, a new screen pops up and we’re staring at dozens of brand-new faces. CEO… Board of Directors… Executive Vice
Presidents… the list keeps going—tons of photos under each category heading. Forget the few dozen people who run the website—we’re
talking the full organizational hierarchy here—from the CEO, all the way down to background animators.

“There’s gotta be two thousand photos here,” Gillian says, sounding overwhelmed.

“Go to Stoughton’s Internet group,” I interrupt, my voice surging as I let go of Charlie’s shirt. “If I’m Duckworth, I’m keeping
it on the home team.”

“Guess who’s back in boy-wonder mode?” Charlie asks. He loves the tease, but I can tell he’s excited. Nodding, he scrolls
down through the various groups until he gets to
Disney Online.
Set up in the exact same pyramid as before, it doesn’t take us long to find Stoughton’s salt-and-pepper portrait. Below him,
we once again spot the pale accounting guy, followed by the redhead. But once again, that’s where the Online group ends. Just
like before. No black man; no cleft chin. Right back where we started.

“Didn’t your dad ever do anything easy?” Charlie asks.

“It’s in here somewhere,” I insist, eyes locked on the screen.

Gillian’s silent, but the way she fidgets with her skirt, it’s like she sees something familiar. Something she knows. Her
voice is slow in its deliberation. “Go to
Imagineering,
” she eventually suggests.

Charlie looks at me; I nod a quick approval. Duckworth’s old stomping ground.

He scrolls back up as quickly as he can. Imagineers. At the top, the VP of Imagineering is a handsome middle-aged man with
a restrained, taunting grin. Underneath, his first lieutenant is about the same age, with a collection of double-chins that
makes him look almost jolly. And below the two of them… is Marcus Dayal, a dark-skinned black man with an unmistakable cleft
chin.

Charlie presses the photo strip against the screen to match up the pictures. The static electricity on the monitor holds it
in place. Perfect match.

“I’m telling you, we’d whup the Hardy Boys’ asses anyday,” he says.

“Press the button,” I insist, barely able to contain myself.

Moving the cursor over Marcus’s digital photo, Charlie clicks it once and starts the countdown.

Once again, nothing happens. And then—once again—some-thing does.

“They’re heeeere…” Charlie whispers as the screen fades to black.

This time, though, it’s different than before—a cascade of images appear, and just as quickly vanish. Web page after web page
opens at whirlwind speed, their words and logos fading immediately after they appear:
Team Disney Online
…
Company Directory
…
Employee Locator
—the cursor’s moving and clicking in every direction, like it’s surfing through the site on fast-forward. The rush of images
fly at us, faster and faster, deeper into the website and further down the wormhole. The pages are skimming past us at such
high speeds that they merge in a dark purple blur. I’m almost dizzy from staring at it, but only a fool would look away.

And then the brakes kick in. A single, final image slaps the screen. I actually jump back as it stops. So does Charlie. To
her credit, Gillian doesn’t flinch.

“Here we go…” Charlie says.

He’s right about that one. Wherever we are, this is it. Duckworth’s three-hundred-and-thirteen-million-dollar idea.

P
ractically blocking my view, Charlie’s leaning so close to the screen, his chest presses against the keyboard. As I pull him
back, it takes me all of two seconds to recognize what he’s gaping at. The midnight blue
Greene & Greene
logo on the top left. The
est. 1870
sign on the top right.

“A bank statement?” Charlie asks.

I nod, checking it myself. At first glance, that’s all it is—just a regular, end-of-the-month bank statement. Except for the
Greene logo, it doesn’t look any different from the monthly statement at any bank: deposits, withdrawals, account number—all
the pieces are there. The only difference is the name of the account holder…