Zeke and Bethany peered through the window of the Spy Shop on West Fourth Street. The space was small, and the glass cabinets were crammed with unfamiliar-looking equipment. A short gray-haired man, red-faced and fat, stood behind the counter, looking at catalogs.
A bell rang when Zeke opened the door, and they could see themselves on a television set on the wall. Zeke thought the security seemed excessive, until he looked at the price tags. Wow. Expensive.
“We’re interested in checking an office for listening devices,” he said to the fat man, who wore a “My name is Pete” tag.
“I can do that for you,” Pete said. “My minimum fee is twenty-five hundred dollars.”
“We were thinkin’ of doin’ it ourselves,” Bethany said.
“Who d’ya think is bugging you? The Feds or the state?”
“Uh—private,” Zeke said.
Pete shook his head. “I wouldn’t advise doing it yourself. To get the job done right, you need a pro.”
“Can we rent equipment?” Bethany asked.
“No, ma’am, we don’t rent. The equipment’s valuable, and people would ruin it.”
“How much is the cheapest device?” Zeke asked.
“The best one is seven fifty. It vibrates so you can tell when someone you’re talking to is wearing a wire without him knowing it.”
“I just want to check an office,” Zeke repeated.
“We got something here for five hundred,” Pete said. He took an instrument that looked like a cell phone out of the case. “It don’t vibrate—lights up when you get near a bug. It’ll do okay, but I don’t advise it.”
“I’ll take it,” Zeke said, and pulled out his wallet. He could hardly wait to get out of the place. The Spy Shop was hot and claustrophobic, and Pete reeked of alcohol. Maybe being a spy or spy detector drove a person to drink. Zeke was pretty sure today’s spying would be a one-time thing, thank goodness.