City of Hugs and Thugs. Naples, Italy— We left Angelo and wandered around the corner, through the fish and produce market for a while. Pausing next to a table heaped with shiny mussels, I watched a woman force-feed her fat six-year-old. She roughly spooned orange goop from a jar into his face as the boy, round as a sumo-wrestler, held up a protesting hand. We shot a little video, then popped into an internet cafÃ©. It was 1:30.
We decided to go to the train station before the criminals took their siesta at two. Crossing Corso Garibaldi, we paused on the median strip at the tram stop. So many suspects and others we recognized stood around there, and a tram was just arriving. We couldn’t resist jumping on. It was the most crowded I’d ever been on. Thieves were everywhere, maybe 20 just around us at the back door. One, a North African, looked at Bob and said to his partner in English, “professional pickpocket.” They must have recognized us from previous visits. They got off the tram.
Bob and I didn’t look at each other, pretending we weren’t together. I kept my camera running, aimed at a small, dignified, gray-haired man in a sport coat and tie, who got close to Bob. He had neat hair, glasses, and carried a plastic bag containing newspapers as a tool for covering his dirty work. Why did I suspect him? It was more than just his tool; it was his shifty eyes, his maneuvering, and my intuition.