Exact Appraisal
Rick Harrison.
His hands were shaking so badly I could see it from where I stood as he appraised the old car in front of him.
“...It’s certain. A 1965 Shelby Cobra 427 semi-competition model.”
Rick’s voice trembled even more than his hands did.
“This was Carroll Shelby’s masterpiece. He took the lightweight chassis from British AC Cars and dropped in Ford’s 427 side-oiler engine. Seven liters of displacement, 485 horsepower. In the 1960s, that kind of output was pure insanity. Zero to sixty in the four-second range, top speed of 165 miles per hour. The very car that crushed Ferrari and Jaguar on the track.”
“That good? Looks like an old junker to me.”
“Shut up! You ignorant fool! Watch your manners!”
Rick cut my uncle off.
“The problem is production numbers. There were fewer than 400 Cobra 427s in total, and only 31 S/C models were ever built. Thirty-one. And they were made in a single year, 1965, before production stopped completely. There are only about twenty left in the world now, and most of those are in museums or in the hands of billionaire collectors.”
He pointed with a finger at the wheel arch of the tire.
“S/C stands for semi-competition. It was built so the car could run both on the race track and on public roads. Wide fenders, pin-fastened bonnet, roll bar, side exhaust... It was pure racing DNA unleashed on the street. This isn’t a classic car. It’s the Holy Grail of American automotive history.”
Rick moved to the driver’s side, opened the door, and checked the leather seats and instrument panel.
“The people who hunt for a car like this are usually old Texas oil tycoons or the big players on Wall Street hedge funds. To them, a Shelby Cobra isn’t just a collectible; it’s a symbol of status. It’s the thing they couldn’t afford when they were young, or the thing they failed to get because luck turned against them. A symbol of wealth, past glory, call it what you want. Every August, Pebble Beach Concours d’Elegance is held, and if you roll up with a Cobra 427 S/C there, every other classic car on the field becomes a side act.”
“Then why was something that amazing just sitting here?”
Victor asked with genuine curiosity.
Rick stroked his chin, deep in thought.
“This place used to be gold country, right? Back in the early 1900s, a lot of mine owners got filthy rich when gold started pouring out of the ground. Guys like that would’ve bought a $7,000 Cobra in the 1960s. Back then, that was the price of a decent mansion. But here’s the problem: once the veins ran dry, those rich bastards started going bust one after another. Now look at it—nothing but an abandoned mining district. My guess? When they shut the mines down and liquidated their assets, they stashed things in warehouses temporarily, then died in some accident or dropped dead from illness before they could deal with it. The heirs probably left everything sitting here for decades without even knowing what it was. Those piles of junk we saw earlier? Same story.”
“So how much is this rust bucket worth, bald man with a big mouth and a tiny dick?”
My uncle asked.
Rick answered with the most serious expression he’d worn yet.
“My dick is definitely not small. And this car starts at three and a half million dollars. With virtually no mileage and the original condition so well preserved, it could go for five million. Maybe even six.”
Even if I added up everything I’d spent to acquire the entire Wishville area, it still didn’t come to two million dollars.
In other words, this single car could generate several times over the cost of everything I’d invested.
Rick grabbed my arm hard.
“Sell it to me! Right now! I’ll empty out my whole fortune if I have to!”
“You should look at the other items first.”
I reached toward the objects beside the Shelby.
Rick’s gaze followed.
“R-right. These were here too. They were. Yeah. These are worth plenty too, just like the Shelby.”
The first was a small oil painting in a battered frame.
Rick checked the signature and drew in a sharp breath.
“Frederic Remington... He painted the American frontier. Cowboys, Indians, cavalry—those were his usual subjects. Texas and Oklahoma oil tycoons go crazy for his name. They believe their roots lie in that rugged West. It needs a proper authentication, but if it checks out, you’re looking at at least eight hundred grand.”
Beside it was another oil painting.
A landscape in dark tones. Rick checked the signature and his eyes widened.
“Albert Bierstadt. One of the masters of the Hudson River School. He’s one of the defining landscape painters of nineteenth-century America. Old-family collectors in New York and Boston hunt for his work, usually to hang it on the walls of ancestral mansions. For a piece this size and in this condition, fifty to sixty thousand dollars.”
Next was a worn leather briefcase.
When Rick opened it, he found a bundle of yellowed manuscript pages.
It was typed, and the title page read: THE MAN WHO INHERITED A FORTUNE FROM AN UNKNOWN RELATIVE—FIRST DRAFT.
Across the pages were dense handwritten corrections.
Rick let out a shout.
“Holy hell! That’s an early Hemingway manuscript! One of the lost pieces from 1922!”
He was so excited that he gripped my shoulder.
“Hemingway’s handwritten manuscripts are holy relics in the literary collecting world! In 1922, his first wife, Hadley, had a manuscript bag stolen at Paris’s Gare de Lyon! That’s how all of his early short stories and novel drafts vanished—every copy, too! It was one of the most tragic losses in literary history. Everyone thought those manuscripts were gone forever... but if this is one of them? We still need an authentication, but if it’s genuine, the starting price is three million dollars! Put it to auction and it could clear five million!”
That wasn’t all.
There were mountains of valuable items stacked all around, and quite a few of them weren’t things I remembered seeing at all.
Rick read the labels on a collection of rare mineral specimens one by one.
“Bisbee azurite from the Arizona mine, rhodonite from Elkhorn, Montana... The important thing in mineral collecting isn’t sparkle, it’s provenance. The Bisbee mine stopped production in 1975, and Elkhorn was closed in the 1960s. That means no new specimens are coming out. Smithsonian-level collectors hunt for sets like this. If the labels are intact and the condition’s good, the whole set could bring eighty grand.”
Next came twenty-four bottles of 1880s bourbon whiskey.
Rick checked the seals and labels on the necks.
“This isn’t valuable because you drink it. Its value lies in the fact that you don’t open it. 1880s bourbon represents the golden age of American whiskey before Prohibition. Old distilling families in Kentucky and Tennessee would kill for this stuff. The whole set is worth about one hundred twenty thousand.”
Victor, who had been listening quietly, asked, “If we handle this as a private sale, won’t there be problems with liquor regulations?”
“It becomes a problem if you make it one. If you don’t, it isn’t. Isn’t that your job, lawyer?”
At that, Victor nodded.
Rick quickly moved on to the next lot of items.
“Vintage miner’s equipment set, three to five thousand dollars. Gold Rush-era relics, so museums will show interest. Gold Rush photo album, good preservation, five grand. Photographic records from that period are rare, so historians will want it. Rare poster collection, eight thousand as a lot. If you sell them individually, the value drops. Vintage Fender guitar cases—just the cases, no guitars—but if they’re original, five hundred apiece. Ten of them, that’s five grand. A 1950s Gibson Les Paul amp, if the tubes still work, twelve thousand. Rock collectors lose their minds over these. Budweiser neon sign—just needs the dust wiped off. If it’s original from the 1950s, three grand. Bar owners will line up to buy it.”
“And the box of rare LPs?”
“Depends on what’s inside.”
At my uncle’s prompting, Rick opened the box and scanned the records.
“Five original 78s of Robert Johnson, unopened first pressing of The Beatles’ Yesterday and Today with the butcher cover, Frank Wilson’s Motown test pressing of ‘Do I Love You,’ a complete set of Elvis Sun Records singles... Jesus, this is insane! There’s at least eight hundred grand in this one box. A Robert Johnson 78 alone goes for a hundred thousand a disc, the unopened butcher cover is worth one hundred fifty thousand, and Frank Wilson? There are only two known copies in the world—thirty thousand is nothing! Auction this and it’ll sail past a million.”
Rick’s eyes shifted to the posters and pamphlets next.
“Original Casablanca theater poster—if it’s a 1942 first printing, that’s one hundred fifty thousand dollars. Collectors of Hollywood’s golden age would kill for it. First-edition pamphlet of Gone with the Wind, twenty grand. A 1959 original Mattel Barbie doll in an unopened box—that’s the Holy Grail of toy collecting. Eight grand. Japanese tin toy robot collection, if they’re 1950s pieces, twelve grand as a set. They’re symbols of Japan’s postwar boom, so Japanese tycoons are desperate to buy them back.”
Beside him, Victor rapidly took down Rick’s estimates in writing.
“1950s Coca-Cola vintage vending machine, six grand if it works. Bally pinball machine needs a closer look, but it seems decent, so four grand. An M1 helmet marked with the 101st Airborne insignia—if it’s from a unit that saw Normandy, three grand. U.S. Army Air Forces A-2 flight jacket, leather’s in good shape, five grand. Veterans’ descendants and military collectors would want it... German Knight’s Cross, if it’s genuine, twenty grand. Nazi relics trade separately and at a premium. BC-1000 field radio set, four grand as a full set regardless of function. Fairbairn-Sykes commando knife—British special forces standard issue—good condition, two grand. Mint-condition Leica IIIc camera, rare because it was made during the war, three grand. Zippo lighters engraved with paratrooper insignia, two hundred each, four to five grand total. Elvis Presley-signed Sun Records single, if authentic, twenty grand. 1939 New York World’s Fair time capsule, unopened, ten grand. Walt Disney Studios Snow White cel animation, fifty grand. Disney collectors go absolutely feral over this stuff...”
Then Rick stopped in front of the last two items.
“Babe Ruth 1933 Goudey baseball card...”
His voice shook.
“This is one of the most expensive items in sports collecting. Depending on condition, it’s worth at least a hundred grand. At auction, two hundred grand isn’t impossible. And this Tiffany Studios stained-glass lamp... if it’s genuine, it’s one hundred fifty grand. Tiffany lamps are the pinnacle of American decorative arts.”
Rick buried his head in both hands and squatted down on the floor.
“I don’t even know what I’m looking at anymore. This is absolutely insane! Is that why people buy abandoned warehouses?”
At last, he stood and turned back to me.
“Nephew!”
The way he addressed me had changed.
“If you send this to an auction house like Sotheby’s or Christie’s, they’ll take fifteen to twenty-five percent in fees! But with this lineup, I can sell straight to private collectors I know! That means you keep the whole amount, no commission! You don’t need an auction house at all! I just have to make a few phone calls!”
He started doing quick mental arithmetic.
“Shelby Cobra, six million. Remington painting, two hundred fifty thousand. Bierstadt painting, one hundred fifty to two hundred grand. Hemingway manuscript, five million. Mineral specimens, eighty grand. Whiskey, one hundred twenty grand. Casablanca poster, one hundred fifty grand. LP collection, eight hundred grand. Snow White cel, fifty grand. Babe Ruth card, one hundred to two hundred grand. Tiffany lamp, one hundred fifty grand... Just the major pieces alone push past eight million dollars. Add in all the smaller items and you’re looking at a solid twelve million.”
Twelve million dollars.
Six times the price I’d paid to acquire Wishville.
I thought back to the newspaper articles I’d seen before my regression.
In the 2025 auction records, a Shelby Cobra 427 S/C had once sold for roughly fifteen million dollars.
But this was late 1991, and I couldn’t expect 2025 prices yet.
For three reasons.
First, inflation.
Between 1991 and 2025, the U.S. Consumer Price Index rose from 136 to 315.
2.3 times.
In other words, fifteen million dollars in 2025 dollars translated to roughly 6.5 million in 1991 money.
Second, the size of the collectibles market.
The classic car market didn’t really explode until after the 2000s, when newly rich buyers from China and Russia flooded in.
In 1991, demand for old cars wasn’t nearly that strong.
Third, the recession.
With the savings-and-loan crisis, rich people’s cash had dried up, and the luxury asset market was frozen.
At classic car auctions, there were more people trying to sell than people trying to buy.
Taking all of that into account...
The price Rick had named was truly a favorable one, but by no means cheap.
In fact, it was probably close to the best I could get in the 1991 market.
The real question is whether I let these antiques sit here or cash them out.
If I left the antiques alone, their value would keep climbing.
Eventually, they’d reach the prices I remembered from 2025.
But if I had cash right now?
By the time 2025 came around, I’d be able to generate returns far greater than simply selling the antiques at the prices I already knew.
Texas real estate was at rock bottom right now.
In the middle of this massive recession and the flood of foreclosures unleashed by the savings-and-loan crisis, properties were trading for five to ten percent of appraised value.
Major oil-sector stocks paid eight percent a year in dividends alone.
Microsoft and Intel still weren’t getting the market attention they would later command.
If I sold off the antiques and invested the twelve million dollars I made at just twelve percent annual return for thirty years, I’d have more than 350 million dollars.
Leaving the same items locked in a warehouse for thirty years would yield maybe thirty million at best.
The calculation was already finished.
“I’ll sell them. Use your network of private collectors.”
“Good! Leave it to me!”
Rick practically jumped with joy.
Before long, he was fumbling out a notebook from his jacket and flipping through his list of contacts.
“Sindal! Take me to a pay phone right now!”
“What? It’s night already. We’ll do it tomorrow after sunrise. The clients are all asleep anyway.”
“You idiot! If someone says they’re selling treasures like this, what kind of jackass keeps sleeping? They’ll all come running in their pajamas!”
My uncle and Rick bickered as usual while they walked back toward the truck.
But from the way their steps had quickened, it was obvious that both of them were thrilled.