So I go into Fretloose, and the place is battered, but meticulous, with guitars and banjos and mandolins and who knows what all lining the walls, and a scattered array of noodling nurds plonking away, and one upping each other, as far as I can tell. I wander around for a few moments like I am in the market, and start listening in to a conversation between the owner and some loser who seems to have been screwed, and is now having to be talked off the wall: --

"But it must be worth more than that! It says Martin right here, and we looked at the catalogue on the Net, and it says that one of these babies from the 60s is worth way more." He was a suburban rube, with the complete Eddie Bauer catalogue draped over his fleshy body.
"Well, I'm sorry. How much did you give him for it?"
"He owed me 1000 bucks, said it was a steal, but he had no cash. He said I could turn it right around. I would have thought you people would know what a Martin is worth."
The owner was very quiet, and polite, and laidback. He said: "Here, let me show you." And took the guitar. "It is a Martin, no question, 1963, I guess. But someone not too long ago had the top all refinished to make it all nice and shiny and new. It is about as dead as dead can be. The sound might reemerge in 20 years if you work at it." He flipped it over. "You see these cracks? The same eager beaver took some Crazy Glue and filled in these cracks. If it wasn't already dead, that killed it. You can take it somewhere else, be my guest. They will tell you the same, if they know anything." There was a moment of silence. Mr. Burbs breathed heavily, snatched his guitar, and walked out of the store cursing many relatives.
I said: "Another satisfied customer."
The owner shrugged, and replied: "He'll probably find some even bigger idiot who'll buy it just because of the name. It's crazy."
I said: "Like all those people who bought GM cars in the 1980s."
He laughed, and said, "Yeah, people like me."
"Well," I continued, "The only thing I know about guitars is that I once had a plastic Roy Roger ukelele when I was 4. So I was wondering if you could help me." I explained who I was, and what I was doing, and when I mentioned Condolezza Schwartz his eyes rolled skyward, and I flipped him the picture.
"This was taken about 30 seconds before a big knife went into it, a few inches from the lady in question. Can you tell me anything about it."
The guy looked at it for about a tenth of a second, and he went pale. "You are kidding me? Shit, a knife? Where?"
I pointed out roughly where I remembered the scar she had showed me on the first day she walked into my office.
He looked at it for a second longer, and shook his head. "I would have to look at it, but you remember the guy who was in here a second ago with the bum Martin --"
"Yes," I said, "What is this Martin thing anyway?"
"Long story. Company name, had its ups and downs, but the gold standard. Anyway, the guitar she has in her hands is partly what it is based on. She has a 39 D-28 in her hands. D for Dreadnought, for big sound, you see the shape, and this little herringbone trim you can just make out, neck a little narrower than the earlier ones. Depending on the condition, it is worth, or I guess was worth, a lot. The Pre-wars are like Microsoft stock in 1993. Do you know if she has had any work done on it since the event?" I didn't know. I would ask her. "It might be partly salvageable. Terrible thing to happen." He shook his head. Customers were begining to pile up.
"Thanks for your time," I said. "Two last questions. One, while working through the records of a company I am interested in, international speculator, oil, commodities of various kinds, I was looking for anything that connected to folk music, and I ran across something called Rosewood Musical Forests Inc. Would that mean anything to you? Brazilian company.
He looked at me and said: "You sure do make a guy's day. Brazilian Rosewood was the wood for the guitar you are talking about, plus Adirondack spruce. Like elephant ivory, you dig?" I dug.
"Last question. Anyone around here know anything about the history of the 60's folk boom, and before. I need a little fast history."
"Sure," he said. " I'll be gone but come back around 5. Jeremiah will be here. Jeremiah Thorn. You two will get a kick out of each other." He shook his head, and went on with his morning. When I left, he was happily chatting to a couple of Japanese tourists who were testing their "Foggy Mountain Breakdown" skills on a couple of banjos. Strange world.