But as soon as Dad had settled in, he began seeing all sorts of opportunities for Jack. His older brother and sister were both professionals, pillars of their respective communities. They were set. But Jack… Dad still saw his younger son as unfinished business.

His brother and sister had given up on him long ago. The annual Christmas card was the extent of their contact. But not Dad. He never gave up. He didn’t want to go to his grave thinking his prodigal dropout son was living hand to mouth in New York as an appliance repairman.

I’ve probably got more socked away than you do, Dad.

He winced as he remembered their last conversation.

You’ve got to see this place, Jack. It’s growing like crazy—a gold mine for someone like you. You establish yourself here as a reliable repair service, and in no time you’ll have a fleet of trucks all over the county…

Be still my heart, he thought. A fleet of trucks, and maybe, if I play my cards right, the cover of Entrepreneur magazine.

Jack had been begging off, hoping Dad would get the message, but obviously he hadn’t. When Jack called back, he was going to have to tell his father point-blank: No way was he leaving New York. The Jets would be wearing new Super Bowl rings before he moved to Florida.

Then again, if things didn’t pick up, maybe he’d have to rethink that.

He’d just checked the answering machine in the drop on Tenth Avenue. Nothing there. Business had been kind of slow lately. He was getting bored.

And when he got bored, he bought things. He’d picked up his latest treasure from the post office just this morning.

He rose and rubbed his eyes. The computer screen tended to bother them. He stood about five-eleven, maybe six foot if he stretched. He had a tight wiry build, dark brown hair, lips on the thin side, and mild brown eyes. Jack worked very hard at looking average.

He removed the clock from its packing to admire it again.

A genuine Shmoo pendulette alarm clock. In beautiful condition. He ran his fingers over its smooth, white, un-marred ceramic surface, touching the eyes and whiskers on the creature’s smiling face. It had come in its original box and looked brand-new.

Now was as good a time as any to hang it on the wall. But where? His walls were already crowded with framed official membership certificates in the Shadow and Doc Savage fan clubs, Captain America’s Sentinels of Liberty, the Junior Justice Society of America, the David Harding CounterSpy Junior Agents Club, and the Don Winslow Creed.

What can I say? he thought I’m a joiner.

His apartment was crowded with wavy-grained Victorian golden oak furniture. The wall shelves sagged under the weight of the neat stuff he’d accumulated over the years, and every horizontal surface on the hutch, the secretary, the claw-and-ball-footed end tables were cluttered as well.

And then he saw where the clock could go: right above the pink Shmoo planter… which still didn’t have anything planted in it.