A long silence. Then a soft sob. “My grandfather always said he put his best solos into that guitar so he’d never really die,” she whispered. “I just needed to know if it was true.”
He played a slow, bent note on the G string, and the note bloomed, then quivered, then sagged just slightly before sustaining forever. That was the Windham winding. That was the old mahogany. That was 1959.
J. Rushmore. Jonah Rushmore. A session guitarist in Chicago in the early '60s. A legend in the blues clubs, but he never made a record. He died in 1965—a fire at a boarding house. The story went that his guitar was destroyed, too. But here it was.
Leo’s blood went cold. He flipped the guitar over and looked at the top. It wasn't a typical flame maple or plain top. Under the cherry sunburst, the maple had tiny, swirling, figure-eight patterns. Bird's eye. Rare. And highly specific.