Thiefhunters in Paradise

Bob interviews Angel amid the ruins of an unused schoolyard.

Panama City, Panama—As Bob and Angel spoke, a tall, handsome boy appeared dribbling a basketball. Soon he was part of our interview. His name was Jaime. He and Angel grew up together, were gangsters and pickpockets together, and were now together in the rehabilitation program.

As pickpockets, Angel and Jaime worked on buses as people got on and off them, at sports events, and at rock concerts.

Jaime, left, is bright and engaging, with the magnetic personality and intense eyes that Angel lacks.

Jaime took a crisp, clean Manila folder from under his arm, which he had brought along specifically to demonstrate how he used it—or something—to shield his handiwork. I was impressed that he had thought to bring a prop. Bob now addressed his questions to Jaime, whose alert demeanor was a welcome improvement over Angel’s empty, shifty eyes. Jaime was engaging, eager to answer, intelligent.

Their best method was the classic “sandwich,” in which one of them would drop keys or coins in front of a mark while the other nabbed his wallet from behind. They demonstrated using Bob as the victim. Then Jaime showed a close-up of his extraction technique. He gripped just a corner of the wallet and sort of zigzagged it up and out of the pocket. He smiled brightly, and I thought he’d make an excellent tour guide some day. Angel, if he’s lucky, might be suitable as a fry cook, or maybe a bell boy.

Buses in Panama are privately owned and serious works of art.

This is part 3 of 6. ——      Part 1

Ripe mangos inside the dilapidated schoolyard.

Panama City, Panama—Too much laundry was hung too neatly on a wire line stretched across the broken schoolyard. This boy can’t be that industrious, I thought. There was cooked rice in a dog food bowl under a mango tree, and I heard a tv. Several tattooed toughs gave us a sideways glance. Were they former gangsters, too, or… gangsters? With a pole and bent hanger, they were trying to snag a mango from the tree in the center of the schoolyard.

Angel observes nervously as Bob readies his cameras.

  
Angel kicked dust while Bob and I set up equipment among the ruins of the school. Countless skinny, mangy dogs wandered past. Angel had agreed to be interviewed on camera, but we were concerned that he’d have second thoughts. We tried to set up quickly. To use as a sofa, Bob dragged over the wooden frame of something long disintegrated. I sat down in the dusty earth and balanced a video camera on my knee.

Angel’s account of the pickpocket business was not too different from others of his plebeian level around the world. Basically, he practiced subsistence stealing, but his gang involvement added a vicious element. All Panamanian gang members carry guns, purportedly to protect themselves, despite the fact that if they get caught carrying a gun, they automatically get several years in prison. Regardless, they carry 9mm guns.

Eventually, Angel loosened up.

Angel lit a cigarette and showed us a recent bullet wound on his hand. He was shot by a rival gangster who didn’t know or believe that Angel had given up gang membership. He said it’s dangerous to live in this gangland without belonging, but admitted that it was equally dangerous to belong. He was covered with gang tats.

This is part 2 of 6. —— Part 1

Angel was a gangster and pickpocket in Panama City who now claims to be former on both counts.

Panama City, Panama—Angel Sánchez is trying to stay clean. Neither crack nor speed produces the high he craves. At 23, Angel is trying to give up pickpocketing. A drug high is nothing, he says, compared to the rush of walking away with someone else’s money.

Angel’s pickpocketing is not the biggest concern of the Panama police, yet they invented a scheme to put him out of business. The program that attempts to rehabilitate local gang members provides vocational training as tour leaders. Gangsters are not invited into the program. They must seek it out and apply for admission. Gang leaders trained to be tour leaders!

Get rid of the gangsters and you get rid of crime.

San Filipe is a World Heritage Site. It’s worse than run down, but restoration has begun.

Angel’s neighborhood, San Filipe, is gangland central. Residents loiter in drugged-out stupors, eyeing the few tourists that are starting to trickle in. The district is marketed as Casco Antigua, Panama City’s old town. Imagine trailing after a tour leader who holds aloft a 9mm gun instead of a yellow umbrella. (“…and on this corner, my three amigos killed a rival…”) That could be San Filipe in a year or so. Just be sure to follow the raised arm with the right tattoos.

Angel in front of the school with Bob and our interpreter.

Angel didn’t speak as he led us to the unused, dilapidated school he lived in as caretaker. Pulling out his important key ring, he unlocked the tall iron gate. His face was tight and he looked at the ground. Bob and I had a significant haul of still and video cameras with us. Hefting our bags, we slipped into the thieves’ den and let the iron gate slam shut, locking us in.

This is part 1 of 6. —— 

A Houston taxi-turned-home.

There was barely room for us in a certain Houston taxi van. The driver must be living in her vehicle. Other than the back seat and part of the rear luggage area, every square inch of space was packed with necessities and creature comforts. We take a lot of taxis but had never seen one even remotely like this one.

The front seat, floor, between the seats, and dash were crowded with the driver's personal items.

A flat-screen tv is lashed to the back of the seat, its antenna and cable against the window.

A large case of toiletries sat atop a cooler between the front seats. A brown paper bag of groceries was on the front floor in front of the passenger seat. A flat-screen TV was strapped to the back of the front passenger seat, a coiled antenna cable attached and rabbit ears protruding. In the back seat were stashes of dry cereal, chips, and instant noodles. I saw some bowls and utensils, too. Blankets and pillows were wedged under the third seat, along with what looked like a sleeping bag.

Under the van's third seat were stashes of sleeping stuff.

We liked the driver. Still, riding in her “home” felt funny, as if we were invading her private sphere. I know we weren’t really intruding, but taking pictures and posting them probably counts as intrusive. We made an appointment for her to drive us back to the airport the next day. She arrived on time, and we tipped her nicely.

Bambi's hiding spot in St. Petersburg, beside and behind a freestanding slab of concrete.

Were you waiting with bated breath for the promised pictures of the Russian ice cream seller and the stolen credit cards she retrieved from her rubbish bin? Were you trying to picture the pee-stained concrete slab I hid behind while filming the Mongolian thieves in St. Petersburg? If yes to either, you’re in luck. In my few days at home between trips, I’ve grabbed a few frames from the video and posted them to the story Bolshoi Bandits: more pickpockets in Russia.

Bob Arno interviews two pickpockets.

Caught-in-the-act criminals aren’t always keen on conversation. “Why I should talk to you!” some say. We’ve been threatened with rocks, hit, spit upon, flipped off, and mooned. But we’re constantly astonished at how many thieves talk to us. Why do they do it? We don’t flash badges at them, we don’t dangle handcuffs. The outlaws don’t know who we are or what’s behind our front. Might we be undercover cops? Hard to imagine, with our flimsy body structures and frequent lack of local language.

My husband, Bob Arno, can usually find a common language for an interview, though he or the perp may have limited ability with it. Sometimes we have a translator with us or can snag one, impromptu. Most importantly, Bob has a unique advantage: he has worked for forty years as a pickpocket.

These pickpockets saw our video camera and let us know what they thought of us.

Inside knowledge, familiarity with moves and challenges, and level dialogue allay our subjects’ suspicions. Or perhaps they’re highly suspicious, nervous, and confused. Ultimately, they don’t know what to make of us.

Okay, so Bob’s a stage pickpocket. He steals from audience members in a comedy setting and always returns his booty. But the physical techniques are the same, the distraction requirement, the analysis of body language, the sheer balls. And Bob has that other illicit necessity: grift sense. He can sense a con, he can play a con.

No doubt our interviewees intuit that in only moments. Next thing we know they’re buying us a beer, accepting our invitation to lunch or, in our favorite case, offering us lucrative work as partners.

While victims relate their anger, inconvenience, and bemusement, their perpetrators tell tales of persecution, desperation, an unjust world, or alternative beliefs in the rights of ownership.

Excerpt from Travel Advisory: How to Avoid Thefts, Cons, and Street Scams
Chapter One (part-m): High and Dry on the Streets of Elsewhere

Off stage but on duty: Bob Arno films thieves on public transportation, here with a hidden camera in his right hand.

A Thief on Thieves

Conning Criminals into Conversation

Las Vegas—Who said it takes a thief to know a thief? The Tall Swede Journal detained a legal one to tell about his criminal cohorts.

Tall Swede Journal: When you’re not on stage, you find, follow, and film street thieves in action. That’s not a common pursuit, is it?

Bob Arno: I don’t think so. My wife and I might be the only ones who take it to such a sophisticated level.

TSJ: You seek out dangerous criminals with your wife?

BA: They’re usually not dangerous. But we can never be certain.

TSJ:  Why might they be dangerous?

Bob speaks with two slippery pickpockets in Estonia.

BA: Many have drug habits, so they’re unpredictable, and so is their level of desperation. Others have such long arrest records, they may do anything in an attempt to avoid jail. And others may be illegally in the country. Desperate, hunted people who are already on the wrong side of the law may feel they have little to lose.

TSJ:  Bob, were you ever on the other side? You must have been.

BA:  You won’t find a police record on me!

TSJ:  I know, we’ve checked. How, then, do you find these thieves? How do you recognize what they are?

BA:  We hang out in the environments that are suitable for this sort of occupation and we focus on behavior. A person intending to steal exhibits certain necessary “tells.” He must look at his target, watch for police, beware of curious bystanders, and surreptitiously maneuver his target into a viable position. He usually also carries a “tool,” something to cover his moves, but it’s almost always an ordinary object which alone wouldn’t cause suspicion.

“I claim [to the thief] to be in the same
profession, but I don’t elaborate. I don’t
tell them that I only steal on stage.”

TSJ:  Would it be fair to say that you profile?

BA:  It would be fair to say that we profile behavior.

TSJ: You mean that a thief doesn’t behave like a citizen or tourist?

BA: He certainly wishes to, but a trained observer can see through his charade.

TSJ:  Any other way you find thieves?

BA: Yes. By allowing them to steal my own wallet. I stuff it with cut paper and shove it deep into my pocket. I have a wallet that’s been stolen over a hundred times.

TSJ: How do you get it back?

BA:  Sometimes I steal it back! Or I steal something else from the thief, like his cell phone or sunglasses. Then I offer to trade his item for my wallet. All of this is simply to start a conversation and establish rapport.

TSJ:  Then they open up to you? Why don’t they just run?

An Italian thief greets Bob with hugs and kisses, then introduces him to his pals (Filmed with a hidden camera.)

BA:  They’re curious about who I am. I claim to be in the same profession they are in, but I don’t elaborate. I don’t tell them that I steal on stage, and they don’t understand the concept of returning stolen items. So, yes. About half of them are willing to talk and the other half prefer to disappear into the crowd.

TSJ:  What do they reveal? What do you learn from them?

BA:  Techniques, motivations, their lifestyles, the politics that allow them—or force them, from their perspective—to steal for a living.

TSJ:  And what do you do with the data you gather?

BA: I train law enforcement and security agencies, I teach travelers how to avoid becoming victims, I’ve written a book, and I testify as an expert witness.

TSJ:  Seems to be a useful pursuit, if an unusual one.

BA: Yes. And it also satisfies the original intent, which was to adapt street techniques for use in my stage show. But it turns out that the intelligence is appreciated by more than just my audience.

TSJ:  Are you still actively researching street crime?

BA:  Absolutely! We focused on Central America recently. We spent significant time in Panama interviewing a very dangerous gang [article coming shortly], and we are planning to revisit the Middle East later this year.

TSJ: I have to ask you once more: have you ever stolen for real?

BA:  I have a very fine soap collection.

TSJ:  Alright Bob, I’ll leave it at that. Thanks very much for speaking with The Tall Swede Journal.

This interview was originally published in The Tall Swede Journal.

A man plays accordion on a Russian bridge

The Bolshoi Bandits and the Crosswalk Czar

In which Bob Arno and his fancy accessory spy on the Russians.

St. Petersburg, Russia—I was ensconced in my stake-out spot on the Canal Griboyedova across from the Gostiny Dvor Metro station; Bob was elsewhere. My position was excellent: close to the action, but the canal between my spot and the crime scene prevented my view from being blocked by passing people. It also had a massive, standing concrete slab, some sort of abandoned roadworks part, which I could duck behind when necessary. Leaded exhaust already lined my nasal passages, and fresh pee fumes rose from the slab. The location wasn’t perfect. I did enjoy the faint strains of accordion from a man squeezing one on the canal bridge half a block away.

Bambi's canal-side hide-out, beside a pee-stained concrete slab.

After filming alone for an hour or so, Bob passed behind me as if he didn’t know me and suggested I cross Nevsky Prospekt because the Mongolian pickpocket gang was at work in the crosswalk, out of my field of view. I did so, but felt exposed and nervous. I half hid behind a billboard and tried to film them, but the angle wasn’t good. A constant stream of pedestrians and traffic blocked my view of the corner. I was also afraid that, since they knew me, one of the gangsters would approach me from behind, or while I was looking through the camera’s view finder. After a while Bob came to get me again.

Bob speaks to the ice cream seller, who has contraband to pass off.

He brought me over to an ice cream cart on the corner in front of the Kazansky Cathedral. The proprietor, Katarina Pavlova, spoke French to Bob. She said she had noticed that he was observing the pickpockets, and that she had something to show him. She looked left and right before explaining that one of the thieves had walked past her stand and tossed something into her trash. Digging through the garbage, she retrieved a thick stack of credit cards, ID, and other wallet contents belonging to a 55-year-old French woman.

The wallet contents had been tossed into the ice cream seller's trash can.

The ice cream seller said she felt it was safe enough to tell us only because this was her last day of work; she was retiring from the ice cream business and planned to stay out of the city. She pressed the plundered heap into Bob’s hand with a forced crooked smile. He should take it. For some reason, she felt it was right.

She retrieved the stolen credit cards from her trash can after seeing the thieves throw them in.

 
So. Pickpockets were dumping ID and credit cards. This seemed to corroborate what other thieves and the police had told us: that the guys working the streets do not exploit credit cards. But what were we to do with the cards? Of course, we immediately thought, we’d try to return them to the victim. After all, they included a telephone number and address. But just as quickly, with a chill, we asked ourselves if this was a set-up. Can you imagine the shakedown? We’re accused of being pickpockets, searched, and found with a French woman’s documents. What would that cost in baksheesh? I imagined handcuffs; then beatings and prison and huge ransoms.

Here you can see the peeish concrete slab. Bambi stands against the canal rail, in her black camouflage.

Bob took the cards.

I objected. So we compromised. We gave the cards back to the ice cream seller, then videotaped her handing them over to Bob and explaining how she had obtained them. Might not stand up in court, but it eased my mind. Eventually, we did try to phone the woman in France, but the number was no longer good. We put them into the mail and never heard of them again.

A little Russian gypsy girl plays in the street

We wandered a couple blocks down, halfway between Nevsky Prospekt and the Church on the Spilled Blood, toward an internet cafe. We’d been inside it many times, and it was always empty except for the sour boy who took our coins. Wandering along, we paused in the oppressive heat to watch a tiny barefooted girl squatting in the street, spinning an old muffler.

She begs and gets a bottle of water

With fine-tuned radar, she leapt to her feet as a man and woman strolled into view and ran to them as fast as her heavy velvet dress allowed. Her big brown eyes netted a bottle of water, which she appeared to take with delight. She went back to her muffler, only to rise again for the next couple, who tried to ignore her.

She latches onto the leg of a passerby

The tenacious little beggar latched onto the man’s leg and wouldn’t let go. When she fell to her knees, the man literally dragged her along the pavement.

The girl is given a dollar

One American dollar freed him. The girl admired her take, carefully folded the bill, and stuffed it into a small pouch that hung from her neck. We watched her until she ran to her mother, who sat on the ground with an infant a block away, leaning against the canal rail.

The little beggar girl tucks money into her pouch

She runs back to, probably, her mother and baby sibling

Late that night, we spoke with a group of Belgian tourists who said that they had been robbed the day before while coming out of the Metro station on Nevsky Prospekt. Three women were hit. One had her purse slashed with a blade and all contents were removed. Her arm had been across her purse. The cut was just under her forearm. The thief had planted his elbow in the woman’s stomach. The other woman had her fannypack opened. The pickpocket handed her passport back to her, indicating that it had been on the ground. I didn’t get the story of the third woman.

Andrey Umansky, a front desk manager at the Grand Hotel Europe, used to work at Baltic Tours, a tour bus operator. Every spring, before tourist season began, they’d pay the police, he said. The deal was that they’d use special signs affixed to buses and carried on sticks, which were meant to tell thieves to stay away from this group. And the police, he explained, made deals with the thieves in order to protect the groups that paid for protection.

There’s lots more.
Another day…
See Russian Rip-off, a five-part post with video.

Bob Arno on stage at the Just For Laughs Gala

The UK comedy guide Chortle.co.uk reviewed the Just For Laughs Craig Ferguson Gala. The most interesting part of the review:

The next act, Bob Arno, steals material. Ties, belts, watches, cellphones and wallets, mainly—as he’s an expert pickpocket. He romps through his act with verve and speed, rattling through some polished, witty banter as he displays his amazing talent. The biggest thing this lively, compelling performer stole, however, was the show.

Along with the Montreal Gazette proclaiming Bob Arno as “best act,” we’re happy.

Just another hotel bed

I’ve made 69 take-offs and landings so far this year. There will be nine this week. I’m holding reservations for 27 more this year—so far. I’ve stayed 89 nights in beds not my own, these first seven months, or on airplanes. This appears to be a downward trend.

Last year I made 115 take-offs and landings. I stayed 176 nights in beds not my own or on planes.

In 2006 there were 117 flights and 184 hotel nights. 199 hotel nights in 2005; 222 in 2004.

Getting there used to be half the fun. That is rarely the case now-a-days.

Montreal—Read anything about this city’s vibrant dining scene and you’ll be pointed to Au Pied de Cochon. You’ll also be warned: dining here entails a serious lapse in a heart-healthy diet. Pigs, of course, are featured heavily on the menu. Foie gras is the restaurant’s other specialty.

I don’t eat pigs, or any four-legged animals. I’m not big on two-legged winged creatures, either. But foie gras makes me swoon. In Montreal, it comes from ducks, not geese, and I find it slightly inferior. Slightly.

At Au Pied de Cochon, chef Martin Picard puts foie gras in everything: pigs’ feet, pizza, and a weird Québécois dish called poutine. Poutine is a pile of fries and cheese curds covered with sauce, and often meat. What are cheese curds? I can’t think of an American equivalent. Cottage cheese curds are smaller and softer, and creamed. Indian paneer is similar: firm, dryish, squeaky lumps of milk soured by an acid. They’re good.

Au Pied de Cochon’s version of poutine starts with potatoes fried in duck fat and topped with a large lobe of seared foie gras. And get this: the sauce is made of foie gras puree, egg yolks, and cream. The eyes and mouth say yeah! while the heart runs for cover.

It was fabulous. Bob and I shared a plate, and we could have walked away satisfied after just the foie gras poutine and glasses of chenin blanc.

But no. We had to experiment. Bob had a fresh bluefin tuna dish, rare and complicated. I had duck in a can. My chef brother-out-law had told me about it. The waiter brought out a piece of toasted bread covered with celery root puree. He also brought a hot sealed can, which he opened with a can opener at the table.

Slowly and ceremoniously, the steaming contents were dumped atop the bread. A duck breast, a large lobe of foie gras, buttered cabbage, a head of garlic, fresh thyme, and mysterious juices were cooked to a fragrant, unidentifiable heap that looked sort of… well, pre-digested.
It was not a pretty sight, though it smelled divine. The structure stood tall on its bread foundation for a minute, until the bread soaked up enough fat and juices to lose its ability to support such a heavy burden. Neighboring diners’ eyes bugged out. Mouths gaped. Oohs and ahs for the spectacle of the duck.

Needless to say, it was delicious. The duck was chewy and gamey, the foie gras meltingly luscious, the garlic an occasional bright surprise, and the cabbage a vegetal counterbalance. The celery root and juicy-crusty bread could have been a meal on it’s own. As you can see, the dish was enough for six people.

No surprise that the combination, foie gras poutine followed by duck in a can, was not a wise choice; I knew that when I ordered. I just had to try both dishes. There were many others I managed to pass up.

So this is my recommendation. Go to Au Pied de Cochon. If duck in a can doesn’t intrigue you, try one of their spectacular seafood platters. Or probably anything on the menu.

Montreal, July 18—Hospital instead of curtain call for Bob Arno at the end of his performance in the televised Just For Laughs Gala, Friday night. Hosted by Craig Ferguson, the all-star line-up played to a packed house at the 2200-seat St. Denis Theatre. Performing comedians included Craig Robinson, Mike Birbiglia, Steve Byrne, Elvira Kurt, Bruce Bruce, and of course, Bob Arno.

The day before, Bob rehearsed the seven cameramen and the sound and light technicians. The theater looked spectacular. Andy Nulman was there, an old friend of Bob’s for more than 20 years.

We arrived on show night in time for makeup and a photo shoot. Then Bob cased the joint, as usual, getting a sense of the upscale audience the costly event attracts. At 7:30 or so, standing in the back of the house waiting to go on, Bob began to feel a little queasy. Something was bothering him, and it was getting worse, not better. Backstage in the wings, I had no idea.

Bob went on and did a smashing show, only a minute longer than his allowed ten. Dashing into the wings to huge applause, he ducked under the video camera waiting to tape his bumper shots. I chased Bob through the backstage maze, through the dressing room hall where 20 or more comics watching the the show on monitors burst into applause, and only caught up with him in our dressing room.

“You’re supposed to tape bumper material,” I reminded him, “it’s in the contract.”

“I can’t,” Bob said, doubled over. “I have a kidney stone.” He grimaced.

Bob Arno’s virtuoso performance was also a heart thumper. With a switch from crime to comedy, “pickpocket” Arno has gone straight but, be forewarned, he’s nobody’s straight man. He delivered a hilarious routine that left the audience running for cover, and double-checking its pockets.” —Hollywood Today.

The scene in the dressing room was bizarre. Bob and I discussed options, to the extent Bob was able to communicate at all. The door was knocked on by a procession of people, and each time I opened it, the inside handle fell off. I was irritated that I had to fit it back on each time, otherwise the door could not be opened. Meanwhile, the next comedian’s routine was blasting into the dressing room and—we could hardly believe it—he seemed to be doing a routine on kidney stones! He graphically described a urinary exam that had Bob shaking his head when I urged him to go straight to the hospital.

Meanwhile, the cameramen kept trying to interview Bob, a PA wanted me to sign off on payment, Andy Nulman was recommending hospitals, a car and driver was arranged, and I was spreading apologies.

Then Bob pulled two watches out of his pocket which, in his pain, he was too distracted to return while on stage. I gave them to Craig Ferguson, who tried to return them to their owner from stage between comedians. One watch was claimed, the other was not. Perhaps its owner left, or didn’t realize it was missing. Eventually, a woman claimed it, running up on stage and admitting it wasn’t hers, but that claiming it allowed her to get a kiss from Craig Ferguson.

Bob skipped the curtain call and slept it off. It was a rough night for him, having refused the hospital. By noon the next day, he was almost back to normal. The Montreal Gazette, in its review, bestowed “Best Act” on Bob.

Happily, we kept our early dinner reservations, then meandered slowly through the city streets, packed with Just For Laughs Festival goers. At the St. Denis Theatre another Gala show was in progress. We popped in and offered to tape the video bumpers and intros that Bob had refused to do because of his illness. Bob delivered them with energy so high it was hard to believe he had been so incapacitated 24 hours earlier.

We headed back out toward the street of festival crowds, where all the comedy stuff was happening. A giant praying mantis climbed over us, its delicate legs lifting high, head tilting, eyes flashing. We were on a perpendicular street about half a block from the thickest crowd, when suddenly there were screams ahead and panicked people scattering. I just had time to ask “what is it? what’s going on?” Then a bucket dumped on me, and on everyone around me. It was a storm the likes of which I’ve never experienced before, despite having lived in the tropics in Asia, Africa, and the Caribbean. One minute it was dry. The next was like standing under a waterfall. There was no cover. We crowded into a doorway, but it didn’t have a roof. Another couple squeezed in and put up an umbrella. I cozied up to them, uninvited, and got the spill from their umbrella along with the rain. We were drenched.

Watch for the 2008 Just for Laughs television show hosted by Craig Ferguson. It will be broadcast around the world. I don’t know when.