It was ten minutes after he’d first laid eyes on it, and Scott Ferguson still held the Fender Strat lightly in his hands before he cradled the neck in the bench rest. Almost afraid to touch it, he slowly took in each minute detail shaking his head approvingly. He looked up at the owner who was still waiting for a response.

“Well, what do you think? 20? 30? Something like that?â€?

“Hell, naw,â€? Scott answered. “You’re talking all original stuff here from the looks of it. Gold tuners, electronics, Shoreline gold finish, no cracks anywhere. A forty year old Strat in this good a shape, man, you must’ve babied this thing.â€?

“Yeah, I treated like it’s one of my own. Look, I’m pretty busy so if we could just move things along here I’d appreciate it.â€?

“Yeah, okay.â€?

“So you think it’s worth more?â€?

“Hell, man, s’hard to say. It’s really up to the buyer, ya know? What they’re willing to pay for something like this. I mean, this is up there with the big boys.”