The Russian guitar under the house trailer wasn't Russian at all. It had a hammer and sickle stenciled on it and the guy claimed that a communist named Keith Richards had owned it back in the late 60s before he was a Rolling Stone. I told him, as far as I knew, Keith Richards was an avowed capitalist. "He is now," he answered, "but this was his back when he was poor and stuff and a member of The People's Army." That's when I knew the guy was delusional. He could see that I was leaving. "Then he sold it to a guy in the Yardbirds," he tried next. "Eric Clapton!" He looked at me with one eyebrow raised. "No," I said. "Jeff Beck?" He was pleading now. The thing was, I liked the pickups on it. I had never seen anything like them. Dark, narrow rectangles that looked like the tops of tiny ancient car batteries . . . and triangular magnets! Who ever saw triangular magnets? But the neck was warped like a rotini noodle and the body appeared to be a fine combo of linoleum over plywood. Junk. I flipped it over in my hands. My heart almost thudded to an elated halt.