The Sound of Money is a thriller in the Ludlum tradition, with its own unique style. The story is woven around musical landmarks, a la Nick Hornby’s High Fidelity, and studded with biographical gems like those found in Peter Guralnick’s Elvis bio, Last Train to Memphis.
The Sound of Money is a tale of ambition and addiction, but ultimately it’s about Bruce Buchanan’s need to be loved and his misguided belief that he can fulfill that desire through the success of his music.
Here's the most recent version of the prologue ...
Flora Martinez was trying to get a better look at a pair of golden eagles when she stumbled upon the first of Leo Walker’s secrets. She’d spotted the birds through a classroom window after school, but on the way to the C-wing exit she heard singing: “The hills are alive ...”
The school music program had been cut for lack of funding, and to the best of Flora’s recollection, the piano in Room M-1 had been gathering dust for years. Peering through the door's square window, she was astonished to see five River Oak students around the piano, with Leo Walker, of all people, leading them.
Leo was the night janitor. Every now and then, he and Flora would exchange a greeting in the hallway or in her office when he emptied the trash. He’d been a member of the custodial crew for six years. He was quiet and courteous.
Whatever else Flora knew about Leo Walker, she knew he was no choir director. Watching him through the window, she was caught in a rare moment of indecision. Should she call the police? Principal Vargez? Perhaps Leo’s boss, Mr. Glickson. Yet this covert glee club sounded so joyful.
“That was great,” she heard Leo say as he brought the song to a halt with a graceful wave of his hand. “Let’s try it again, but this time, pick up the pace. Maria, would you start us off?”
The little girl seated at the piano began playing. Flora was surprised at how good the children sounded, how engaged they seemed. Wasn't that Billy and Luis, and weren’t they problems last year in her class? And poor Maria with that awful leg brace—other kids still made fun of her.
Flora listened to the rehearsal, unconsciously tapping her foot to the beat, but once the children left, she confronted Leo.
* * *
Eight years later, as the principal of River Oak, Flora Martinez secured Leo Walker a full-time position as the school’s music teacher. In the interim, she’d convinced the administration to let Leo teach music a couple of days a week while remaining a janitor. Leo was more than happy to put in the extra hours at no pay. During those eight years he established a well-regarded music class and got an orchestra up and running. He’d built on that success over the last two years as an official member of the staff.
The parents saw Leo as affable and conscientious, a respectable tenant in the small cottage on the Johnson Farm, seven miles east of town. One or two of the mothers took note of his good looks, wondering why he lived alone and rarely socialized. Some just thought him shy, others were slightly wary of his reclusive nature and his lack of formal education. But none could deny his uncanny ability to teach the enjoyment of music, in some form, to even the most tone-deaf child.
Leo Walker often worked late in his tiny office tucked behind the gym's bleacher seats. He was there one evening in March of 1998 when a most unexpected visitor appeared. Leo’s head was bent over the desk as he penciled notes furiously on a piece of sheet music. He didn't look up until Mark Jensen coughed pointedly.
Jensen’s son, Tony, a fifth grader, was in his first year at River Oak. The family had moved to California’s Central Valley from somewhere back east. Leo had met the parents last month at the winter parent-teacher conferences. Tony played the kettledrum and was enthusiastic despite some timing issues. Leo had spoken encouraging words to the parents that night.
Mark Jensen was an awkward man, with shifty shoulders and a narrow nose. He closed the office door behind him, clutching what appeared to be an old LP.
“Hello, Mr. Jensen,” Leo said with a cautious smile. “Everything all right with Tony?”
Taking a step closer, Jensen soaked up what little space there was in the office. His shadow fell across Leo’s face. He tossed the album on the desk and abruptly took a seat.
“I don’t think the school’s record player works anymore,” Leo said. “Everything’s CD.”
“You can cut the crap,” Jensen said. His voice was raspy, as if air was seeping from a hole in his throat.
“Excuse me?”
“I've had plastic surgery, you wouldn't recognize me.” He nodded toward the album on the desk. “That should refresh your memory."
Leo examined the worn album cover: Spyder and the Widows. He shut his eyes for a moment, rubbing his forehead. “There must be some mistake.”
“I told you to cut the crap."
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I know it’s you, Buchanan. My son told me about the tattoo on your arm.”
Leo dropped the album as if it had caught fire. “Lots of people have tattoos.”
“Bruce—that's your real name, isn’t it? Or do you still prefer Spyder?"
“I think you should go.”
Jensen laughed. “We can settle this fast. You and I both know you’ve got another tattoo—Springsteen on your butt. Yes? If I have to, I’ll look for myself.” He opened the fold of his black leather jacket so Leo could see the checkered handle of a gun.
“Who are you?” Leo asked.
Jensen pulled a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket and lit up. He let the match fall to the floor. “I figured you wouldn’t remember me. What’s it been? Twenty years? But you were so drugged out then anyway.”
The smoke stung Leo’s eyes.
“I worked with Uncle Morty," Jensen went on. "Surely you haven't forgotten him? But you and I only met a couple of times.” He brushed a hand over his bristly blond hair, grinning like a jackal. “They called me Onions ‘cause I’d smother a Philly cheese steak with ‘em. God, I wish you could get a decent sandwich out here.”
“What do you want?” Leo said.
“Ain’t it funny, you and me in Visalia, of all fucking places? They moved my family here last year. I ran the distribution for Bella Prime -- CDs, videos, software. I made the Silva Syndicate a bundle until one of my trucks overturned on the highway and the Feds pounced.”
“What do you want?” Leo said again.
“It was jail or testify. That’s why I’m here as Mr. Mark Fucking Jensen.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“You dumb fuck, the Syndicate still has a bounty on you. A lot of folks thought you were dead, but they don’t take chances with double-crossers. They make examples out of your type. Five hundred G's, that’s what you'll fetch.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Now if you don’t leave, I’m going to call the police.”
Jensen chortled. “Go ahead, dipshit. You’re still wanted by the FBI.” He picked up the phone and handed Leo the receiver.
Leo stared at him, but didn’t move.
Jensen smiled. He put the receiver back on the base. “I thought so. The Silvas are not going to be happy to hear you blew their money.”
“What?”
“You did, didn’t you? I checked. No guy spends sixteen years in this fucking hellhole if he’s got a million bucks.”
Fear stirred in Leo’s gut. “You’ve got it wrong. I don’t know anything about that. I swear.”
Jensen laughed loudly. “It don’t matter. All I care about is collecting those five hundred G's.” He took a last drag off his cigarette and tossed it on the floor. “You and me are taking a road trip east.”
Sweat glistened on Leo’s brow. “But if you’re in a witness program, you can’t go back there.”
“Don’t worry, I’ve still got friends. And for the money, it’s worth the risk.” Jensen pulled the gun from its holster. “Let’s move it.”
Several days later at dawn Mark Jensen, aka Lou ‘Onions’ Donato, drove a Cadillac across the George Washington Bridge into Manhattan. The sky was blood red. Joey Kowalsky, his old partner, was in the back seat aiming a gun at Leo Walker. Kowalsky wore a dark business suit; his graying hair was slicked back in the style of Wall Streeters circa 1980.
"They did a helluva a job on your face," Kowalsky said. "I'd never’ve recognized you."
Onions smirked. "I was glad to get rid of that damn birthmark."
"Your nose doesn’t look too shabby. How many times did you bust it?"
"I lost count."
Kowalsky leaned forward. "But with all the surgery, why didn’t they fix that voice? You still sound like a hack impression of Jimmy Cagney.”
Onions laughed. “You dirty rat.”
The Cadillac pulled up in front of an old apartment building on 23rd Street near Second Avenue. The sidewalk was cold and quiet. Kowalsky yanked Leo out of the back seat. Two pigeons squawked.
"I'm hungry," Kowalsky said. "I'm hitting the corner deli. You can handle this, right?"
Onions fumbled with the keys to the lobby door. "I got him here from fucking California, didn't I?" He pushed Leo into the building and motioned with the gun toward the stairs. They trudged the well-worn linoleum steps, zigzagging up through the brownstone. When they reached apartment 5D, both men were breathing hard.
Inside, Leo made for the kitchen. "I need water."
"Hey, don't go in there,” Onions called out. “Stop."
Leo wasn’t a big man, but he still filled most of the narrow space between the sink and cabinets. He drank from the faucet as if he'd been in a desert for a year, scooping water into his parched mouth.
"You don’t listen," Onions said, pistol-whipping Leo across the back of the head.
Leo dropped with a clunk, his body wedged awkwardly between the counters.
“Shit,” Onions said, slapping the gun down on the stove top. “I didn’t mean to hit you so hard. Come on, get up.”
Leo didn’t budge. Onions kicked him. Nothing. Leo was out cold.
“Fuck me,” Onions muttered, and dragged Leo by the ankles down the hall to the bedroom.
A single bulb burned from the ceiling. The walls were bare and water-stained. Onions dropped Leo in the center of the dim gray room. He closed the shade and lifted Leo onto the metal folding chair by the window. “Shit, you’re heavy.”
Leo’s unconscious body flopped about uncooperatively, but Onions had experience with such matters. He soon had Leo’s arms and legs tied to the steel bracing. Leo’s head lolled to the side.
Twenty minutes later Onions tossed water in Leo's face.
"Ugh," Leo said, blinking. Blood trickled from the gash on the back of his head. "What happened? I’m thirsty. Water.”
“My partner got us something better.” Onions pulled two cups of coffee from a brown paper bag. The smell reminded Leo of the faculty lounge in Visalia. He loved making a fresh pot before first period, but those days seemed far away.
Onions freed Leo's hands. “What did they know from bagels in Visalia?” He handed Leo an onion bagel. “Never thought I'd miss the fucking Jews. And how about that shit they called pizza? The crust was like eating a paper plate.”
Dehydrated, Leo gulped the deli java, barely listening.
“Easy,” Onions said. “My partner’s gone to contact the Silvas. We'll make the exchange today.”
Leo ate like an animal, trying to get his brain to focus, knowing he was almost out of time.
Onions pulled another bagel from the bag.
“Can you really trust him?" Leo said with his mouth full. "Maybe there's a bounty on your head too.”
Onions’ Adam’s apple shifted downward. “Shut the fuck up.”
“I’m just saying you might be worth more to them than I am. How much did your testimony cost them?”
Onions whacked Leo’s face. “Another word out of you and I’ll fucking …”
The buzzer rang and Onions dashed out.
Dazed, Leo tried to loosen the rope that bound his legs to the chair, but he was groggy and the knots were tight. He heard arguing in the hallway, voices rising – and then a gunshot.
Kowalsky burst into the room, slipping his semiautomatic back into its shoulder holster. “No funny stuff," he said, "you hear?"
Leo said nothing, his legs shaking.
"So you're the one who ripped Morty off all those years ago. You got quite the reputation -- legendary status. One million fucking smackaroos. That took balls, let me tell ya.”
Leo’s dark eyes were glazed, as if he were sedated, but his mind was racing. Kowalsky grabbed a shock of his hair. “Are you really that asshole Spyder?” He produced a knife from the pocket of his Brooks Brothers jacket. The blade swooshed open. Fear spread across Leo’s haggard face. Kowalsky laughed, cut the ropes around Leo's legs, and slipped the knife back into his suit pocket. “We don’t have much time,” he said. “I took out my partner, I won’t hesitate with your sorry ass either. Drop those drawers.”
Leo froze.
“Jesus Christ,” Kowalsky said. “What did I just say?” He yanked Leo upright and shoved him across the room as if he were a rag doll. Leo struck the wall so hard his body left an imprint in the Sheetrock. He fell to the floor. Kowalsky rolled him onto his stomach and sliced his pants along the seams. When he saw the Springsteen tattoo on Leo’s butt, he let out a whoop. “Son of a bitch. A double fucking whammy. Five hundred for your ass, five hundred for Onions.”
Kowalsky was bent over Leo, laughing, when Onions staggered into the room, a trail of blood staining the hallway behind him. He aimed the Ruger, but the slim, tapered barrel wobbled. The first bullet grazed Kowalsky, who had turned fast, reaching for his weapon, knowing that Onions was a keen marksman. The next bullet struck Kowalsky between the eyes. The overweight mobster fell backwards onto Leo, who was still on his belly, in shock, pants in shreds. The impact knocked the wind out of him and he gasped. Kowalsky was deadweight, literally, but Leo kept his eyes shut, afraid to make another sound, hoping Onions would think he was dead too.
“Nobody fucks with me,” Onions mumbled, slumping to the floor.
Leo didn’t budge for what seemed an eternity. The acrid smell of gunpowder floated in the air. Finally Leo shoved Kowalsky aside. The mobster rolled over onto the floor, a stream of blood flowing from the hole between his eyes, an expression of surprise plastered on his clean-shaven face. Onions was propped against the doorjamb, the smoking gun still in his hand. Leo knocked the weapon away. Onions didn’t move. Leo exchanged pants with him, figuring his would be the better fit. He searched both dead men’s pockets and found over six hundred bucks.
He went to the bathroom and washed the blood from his pulpy face, and with it his assumed identity as Leo Walker. He’d created a life in Visalia, a place so obscure and isolated that he thought no one from his past could find him. He’d called it home, something he hadn’t thought possible sixteen years ago when he first arrived. Now he had to assume they would find him no matter where he went.
