Copyright 1994(c)

                      FIFTEEN MINUTES WORTH
                         By Curtis Mason

     "Got an I.D.?" asked the Lieutenant of Detectives, nodding at
the corpse in the alley.
     "Not yet," said Sergeant Mark Baskin.
     "Natural?" asked Baskin's Loot, Calvin Hodge.
     "Looks like it. We'll know more after the M.E.'s report,"
Baskin answered. "I'd say he just froze to death," Baskin opined.
     "Happens," said the Loot.
     "Hope it happened here," said Baskin. "We've got enough
unsolved homicides on the books. This one," he waved a hand at the
corpse, "smells to high heaven of cheap wine. Probably got zonked
and laid down to take a nap. Wintertime in New York's rough on the
street people."
     "Yeah," said the Loot, turning away. "Book it as a natural and
see if you can run down a relative to pick up the tab for the
funeral, okay?"
     "Yes sir," said Baskin. He motioned technicians over to take
fingerprints from the unidentified dead man. Baskin watched,
disinterestedly, as the stiff fingers were forced onto the ink pad
and rolled over the form. The pockets had already been searched,
producing nothing of any value or significance. He glanced to the
small pile of belongings.
     No wallet, no keys or jewelry, of course. No I.D. of any type.
The corpse had a crumpled pack of Winston cigarettes, empty except
for a few long butts. There had been thirteen cents in nickels and
pennies in the right front pocket, and a battered baseball card in
the hip pocket.
     Baskin wondered if the bum had known that he was carrying a
fortune in his hip pocket. When baseball had disappeared from the
American culture, there had been a rush to purchase cards for
future appreciation. The bum had been holding onto a Curt Schilling
rookie card. Baskin figured it would go for $5,000 easy. Now, it
would end up in a dusty property room, probably forever.
     Just as well, he decided. The bum probably would have only
sold it for change and killed himself sooner with drink if he'd
known what he had.
     "Street people," Baskin murmured, shaking his head. He moved
to his car and left the M.E. bending over the scruffy-bearded,
malnourished face of what sports fans of an earlier era would have
recognized as the famous Phillies player's rep.
                               END