“What do you think, then? We have a guitar to suit you?”
“They’re all good, man,” said the hairy cornflake.
“You gonna buy them all, then? That should be a good day for me.”
Both of them laughed and pointed at him and then glanced at each other.
No-hair reached into his pocket and drew out some cash. “Can we leave a deposit on these two guitars?”
He pointed to the ones they were holding – bass and rhythm.
“Of course you can,” said Terry, pleased he’d made a sale when he didn’t think he would.
“We’ll come back next week and pay for ’em when we get
paid. That all right?”
“No problem, son. What about an amp?”
“When we pay you next week we’ll talk about that, if you don’t mind.”
“Not at all. Always pleased to help.”
He led them to the front of the shop, completed the paperwork, took their money and bade them a good day.
“Sorry about that,” he said to the man who had waited patiently. “How can I help you?”
“I’ve just bought this. I wondered if you could re-string it for me and give it the once over.”
Terry took the case, moved to the end of the counter and laid it on top. He opened the lid and whistled through his teeth. “Nice machine. Seen a bit of action.”
The red Fender Stratocaster was definitely a model from the late seventies. Not a copy, the genuine article. He lifted it out and the plate on the back confirmed it was built in the USA.
He ran his hands up and down the body. The scratches and dents were real and original. None of them had been touched up. In some respects the battle scars added to the value. The guitar had seen a lot of action but Strats were built to last. He checked the case. That was original as well. He noticed a small round hole on the outside that had been repaired. He suspected a music stand had gone through it at some point. It had happened to him many times over the years; one of the hazards of being on the road. With every sale he now tried to persuade people into buying a flight case, they were much stronger.
“You say you’ve only just bought it?”
The man nodded. “Yesterday.”
Terry sized him up and down. He was probably in his late teens, well dressed: good quality shoes, hair neatly trimmed and combed. He was clean-shaven, smelled spicy. For all that, Terry had the impression he didn’t know the first thing about a guitar. He was probably working off what someone else had told him.
“How much did you pay for it, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“Five hundred pounds. I’ve been saving for one of these for years. My Dad reckons they’re the best, especially if you want to play Shadows music. He helped me with the last hundred. Was it a good buy?”
“What’s your name?”
“Stephen Whiteley.”
“We’ll soon find out, Stephen,” said Terry, immediately feeling sorry for the young man. “Where did you buy it?”
The answer to that question wasn’t so forthcoming. “Everything’s okay, isn’t it, Stephen?”
Stephen sighed. “Truth is, I bought it through a friend of a friend, so I don’t exactly know where it’s come from. But he said it was all above board. Just... didn’t tell my dad.”
Terry nodded and smiled. “I’m sure it was.”
But he didn’t think so. Terry hated to see people being ripped off – whoever they were, never mind decent people like Stephen appeared to be. Even the two Herberts who had been in the back of the shop for an hour. He wouldn’t have liked either of those being ripped off. People who bought from him always ended up with a fair deal. That’s why they came back.