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...
March 1998
Flora Martinez wanted 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, 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 music, but once the children left, Flora 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 allow Leo to 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.
The parents saw Leo as affable and quiet, 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, wondered 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 when a most unexpected visitor appeared. Leo’s head was bent over the desk, penciling 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 filled 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 hushed, as if air seeped 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 record cover of Spyder and the Widows. “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 the 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? You were so drugged out then anyway.”
The smoke stung Leo’s eyes.
“I worked for Stanley Kopsky," Jensen went on. "Surely you haven't forgotten your manager? But you and I only met a couple of times.” Jensen brushed his bristly blond hair from his forehead, grinning like a jackal. “They called me the Pirate.”
“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 duplication operations for Kopsky -- CDs, videos, software. I made the family a bundle ‘till the Feds busted it.”
“What do you want?”
“It was jail or testify. That’s why I’m here as Mr. Mark fucking Jensen.”
“Why are you telling me this?” Leo asked.
“You dumb fuck, Uncle Morty still has a bounty on you. A lot of folks thought you were dead, but M don’t take chances with double-crossers. He has to 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.” Jensen picked up the phone and handed the receiver to Leo.
Leo stared at Jensen, but didn’t move.
Jensen smiled, put the receiver back on the base. “I thought so. Morty’s not going to be happy to hear you blew his money.”
“What?”
“You did, didn’t you? I checked. No guy spends sixteen years in this fucking hell hole if he’s got a million bucks.”
Pain 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 back east.”
Sweat glistened on Leo’s brow. “But if you’re in a witness program, you can’t do that.”
“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.”
At dawn Mark Jensen drove the Cadillac across the George Washington Bridge into Manhattan. The sky was blood red. Joey Kowalsky, Jesnesn’s old partner, was in the back seat with a gun on Leo Walker. Kowalsky wore a dark business suit; his graying hair was slicked back like Wall Streeters of the 80’s.
"They did a helluva a job on your face," Kowalsky said to Jensen. "I'd never’ve recognized you."
Jensen 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 chortled. "With all the surgery, why didn’t they fix that voice. You still sound like a hack impression of Jimmy Cagney.”
Jensen 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?"
Jensen fumbled with the keys to the lobby door. "I got him here from fucking California, didn't I?"
Jensen pushed Leo into the building and motioned with the gun toward the stairs. They trudged the well-worn linoleum steps, winding up through the brownstone. When they reached apartment 5D on the fifth floor, both men were breathing hard.
Inside, Leo made for the kitchen. "I need water."
"Hey, don't go in there,” Jensen called out. “Stop."
Leo wasn’t a big man, but he still filled 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 with his hands.
"You don’t listen," Jensen said, pistol-whipping Leo across the back of his head.
Leo dropped with a thud, his body wedged awkwardly between the counters. “Shit,” Jensen said, slapping the gun down on the stove top. “I didn’t mean to hit you so hard.”
Leo said nothing.
Jensen kicked him. “Come on, get up.”
Leo didn’t move, and Jensen kicked him again. Eventually he realized Leo was out cold. “Fuck me,” he 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. Jensen 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 fucking heavy.”
Leo’s unconscious body flipped flopped about uncooperatively, but Jensen had experience with such matters. He soon had Leo’s arms tied to the steel bracing, the legs bound too. Leo’s head tilted to the side, his eyes remained shut.
Twenty minutes later Jensen tossed water in Leo's face.
"Ugh," Leo said, blinking like a madman. Blood trickled from the gash on the back of his head. "What happened? I’m thirsty. Water.”
“Joey got us something better.” Jensen pulled two cups of Jo from a brown paper bag. The smell of fresh coffee reminded Leo of the faculty lounge in Visalia. He loved making a fresh pot before first period, but those days seemed far away indeed.
Jensen freed Leo's hands. “What did they know from bagels in Visalia? Never thought I'd miss the fucking Jews. And how about the shit they called pizza? The crust was like eating a paper plate.”
Leo was dehydrated, he gulped the deli java, barely listening to Jensen.
“Easy,” Jensen said. “My partner’s gone to contact Morty. We'll make the exchange today.”
Leo ate like an animal, but tried to get his mind to focus, he knew he was running out of time, but he had few options.
Jensen pulled another bagel from the bag.
“Can you really trust him?" Leo said while chewing the bagel. "Maybe there's a bounty on your head too.”
Jensen's Adams apple shifted downward. “Shut the fuck up.”
“I’m just saying you might be worth more to Uncle Morty than me. How much did your testimony cost him?”
Jensen whacked Leo across the face, hit him two more times for good measure. “Another word out of you and I’ll fucking…”
The buzzer rang and Jensen dashed out.
Dazed, but with hands free, 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 raised, a gun went off. Leo’s heart pounded, he flailed, arms trying to wiggle free, but he had no luck.
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 off Morty 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’d been sedated, but his mind was racing, trying to figure out what he could do or say to stay alive.
Kowalsky grabbed a shock of hair. “Are you really that asshole, Spyder?”
Fear spread across Leo’s haggard face.
Kowalsky took a switchblade from the inside pocket of his Brooks Brothers jacket. The blade swooshed open. Leo’s eyes grew wide, but it was the ropes around Leo's legs that Kowalsky cut; the blade slipped back into the suit pocket. “We don’t have much time,” Kowalsky said. “I took out my partner, I won’t hesitate with your sorry ass, 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 ground and barely moved. Kowalsky rolled him onto his stomach, sliced his pants along the seams. Leo was defenseless.
When Kowalsky saw the Springsteen tattoo on the butt, he laughed hard. “Son of a bitch. A double fucking whammy. Five hundred for your ass, five hundred for the Pirate’s head.”
Kowalsky was bent over Leo, laughing, when Mark Jensen snaked into the room. Kowalsky’s former partner had used most of his strength to reach this point and leaned hard into the door jam, a trail of blood stained the hallway. He aimed the Ruger, but the slim tapered barrel wobbled. The first bullet grazed Kowalsky, who turned fast, reaching for his weapon, knowing that The Pirate was a cracker-jack shot. The next bullet struck Kowalsky between the eyes.
The over-weight mobster fell backwards onto Leo, who was still on his belly, in shock, pants down. The impact knocked the wind out of Leo and he gasped. It was as if a beam had fallen from the ceiling and he was wedged underneath. Kowalsky was deadweight, literally, but Leo kept his eyes shut, afraid to make another sound or move even an inch, hoping Jensen would think he was dead too.
“Nobody fucks with me,” Jensen mumbled, Cagneyesque, sliding to the floor with a thud.
Leo didn’t budge for what seemed an eternity. The stiff smell of gun powder floated in the air, both mobsters were still. At some point Leo realized he was the only one alive. He shoved Kowalsky aside. The mobster rolled over on to the floor head up. A stream of blood flowed from the hole between the dead mobster’s eyes, an expression of surprise plastered that clean shaven face. Mark Jensen was propped against the door jam, the smoking gun still in his hand, rigormortis already settling in.
Leo slipped out of his torn trousers. He yanked off Jensen’s, figuring they’d fit better than Kowalsky’s. He searched both dead men’s pockets. He found over four hundred bucks in Jensen’s wallet, two hundred in Kowalsky’s.
Leo went into the bathroom and washed the blood from his pulpy face, and with it, the memory of 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 had called it home, something he hadn’t thought possible sixteen-years ago when he’d arrived. He had to assume they would find him no matter where he went, but for now, all that mattered was to keep moving.
