His car roared away while I stood in stunned silence.
"What the hell's in the box, sis?"
I walked to the table and lifted the lid, handing one of the Plexiglas-encased balls to my brother. It was marked with a small plaque showing the name and date.
"Holy s**t, it's a Babe Ruth."
At least it was someone I'd heard of and I didn't feel stupid. I picked up another, lifting it to the dim light. Mickey Mantle, someone else I'd heard of, so I knew these balls were worth some money.
When word went out on the street that Big Jim, the local fence, would pay ten grand for Reed Tyler's autographed baseball collection, I had no idea exactly which balls I was after. I just figured that some dumbass rich jock could afford to lose them. I didn't know Reed's father gave them to him. I looked down. Th
