NAPLES, ITALY, the week before christmas. After his demonstration of hard bargaining, pickpockets Angelo and Luciano smoke on the narrow balcony while we chat in the kitchen. Shortly, Angelo announces that he needs to get back to work. He’s got a lot of christmas presents to buy. He kisses all the children again. We all trek down the dark stairwell and the thief bids his farewell with the customary kisses. The waitress spots him and begs for a photo, along with Bob. She remembers Angelo from the film, too.

The restaurant is small—maybe five tables inside, more outside when it’s warmer. Bob and I take a corner table with Luciano, Michele, and Lucca. The place is all family run. The waitress points out her father-in-law the chef, her mother-in-law, her husband. Luciano says he sometimes buys food here and brings it upstairs, when no one feels like cooking.

I ask Luciano if he liked the film about himself and his pickpocket friends. Yes. Did anything negative come from it? No.

Luciano tells how sometimes he’d ask a mark for the time, just to get him to raise his arm and elbow. Then he’d move his own arm forward to block the mark’s arm from coming down. That gave him the moment he needed to get into the pocket. Also, when people were all bundled up in the winter, he’d knock a mark’s hat off. That’s all it took to distract him.

The pickpockets like to take most of the cash, but leave some, Luciano says. That way the victim doesn’t think he’s been pickpocketed, but wonders where his money went. Did he spend it? drop it? forget to get change? They don’t like to take a wallet, either—they like to take the money and leave the wallet if they can.

One of us asks Luciano if he ever felt bad about stealing. If he ever had regrets. He says yes, and tells about the time he stole from a man just before christmas and managed to pass off the money. The man caught him, but when the police accused him, he had no evidence on him. Still, he knew the police knew. Meanwhile, the man had begun to cry, he was so upset. He gave the money back to the victim. “Most of it,” he clarifies.

Coffee comes, then limoncello and a delicious licorice liqueur. The brand is Strega, Italian for witch.

This is Part 8. Read Part 9.
Read Part 1.

NAPLES, ITALY, the week before christmas. Michele arrives promptly at Circumvesuviana station with his brother Lucca. Lucca’s nice to have along, and also helps translate. We cross the street and head into the market.

Luciano’s standing in his spot looking forlorn. His cigarette stand was seized by police at 10:00 this morning. Seizures usually occur about twice a year, but this is the second time this week. Between the two raids, he lost about €700 worth of cigarettes that he hadn’t yet paid for. “I haven’t done it for years, but this morning I was very tempted to go back to my old work on the trams,” Luciano said. The cigarette sales are surely illegal in some way or another. Mob-supplied, stolen, counterfeit, something. We all mourn with Luciano, though. It’s his livelihood and seems better than outright thievery. It has kept him from pickpocketing, anyway. I silently dwell on the fact that he kept his appointment with us, even though he has no business in the market, a fact that impresses me.

Up to now the news of Luciano’s loss has usurped the obvious: no Angelo. We’re disappointed that once, again, he’s failed to show up. Bob had predicted it. Angelo must be mad that Franco had more face-time in the film, he surmises.

Luciano invites us to visit his apartment, just a few blocks away. As we walk, he wonders how we located him in the market—how we knew where he stands with his cigarettes. We remind him that he told us vaguely where two-and-a-half years ago during the film shoot.

His apartment is four flights up, over a restaurant. Michele inhales deeply and suggests we have lunch here later. It’s the kind of simple neighborhood place that churns out dependably decent meals. A steady stream of motor scooters load up with take-out. We stand in the fragrant street while Luciano rings his wife and converses with her on the buildings’ intercom. Bob has pushed him to call Angelo again and Luciano is asking his wife up there to do so.

Meanwhile, a waitress at the restaurant has recognized Bob. She calls out “film,” and makes camera gestures. Bob promises her a photo later.

Eventually the five of us trudge up the four flights: Luciano, Bob, Michele, Lucca, and I. The stone steps are worn smooth and deeply concave. Though we think we have no expectations, we’re surprised at what we find upstairs. The apartment is large, spotless, and sparsely furnished. The kitchen table is long, covered with oilcloth, and dotted with ashtrays. A glass and polished wood china cabinet is filled with porcelain treasures. A magnum of wine stands on the kitchen counter. A pan of cooked tomatoes stands ready to top spaghetti. There are lots of kids of all ages, including Luciano’s grandson Giuliano (not his real name), maybe 18 years old, who is the son of Mirco (who is presently in jail and married to Luciano’s daughter Alessandra).

We get a tour: The master bedroom is kingly; ornately furnished with baroque antiques, a lavish baby crib (“there are always babies coming to visit in Naples”) and a red-and-gold striped bed suitable for royalty. I see an antique telephone and a framed photo of Luciano’s wedding on the polished bureau. We’re herded across to the bathroom, which is as big as a bedroom and includes an outrageous Jacuzzi tub surrounded by roman columns and sporting its own roof. There must be a hundred bath products on the shelves. I’m not sure what to think.

Luciano reveals that the apartment is not his, but belongs to a mobster relative who is in prison. He and his wife live there in the meantime with an assortment of other family members. “We don’t need this,” Luciano says, “we do it for the family. My wife and I would be happy with a mattress in a bare room.”

I’m touched to see his smallest granddaughters run up to him for hugs and whispers. He’s a thief—or a former thief—and a beloved family man.

Bob does some magic tricks for the kids. They’re delighted, as are the adults, and beg for repeats. Everyone who’s remotely old enough is smoking. In the middle of the tricks, in walks Angelo, like a hurricane—and like a celebrity. He’s wearing a cheap suit that doesn’t fit him very well. On second glance, I notice that the jacket doesn’t match the trousers. He’s wearing a bold blue tie and a hat pulled down low. “It’s warmer to dress like this in winter,” he explains, and the hat partially hides his face.

Angelo makes the rounds with hugs and kisses like the favorite uncle he must be. Right away he agrees to participate in our undefined film project. He makes it clear though, that this time he wants big money. He pulls a scrap from his wallet and shows us a phone number: he’s been called by producer in Milano but, he says, he’ll “only do a film with Bob Arno.” He’s famoso now. People recognize him from the film, and he has “molti fans,” He’s even been asked for his autograph. He rubs his thumb over two fingertips and raises his chin.

The kitchen has become chaotic with all the company and excited children. Michele is busy translating for Bob and Angelo. Lucca is translating miscellaneous scraps of conversation for me. I’m feeling faint from the smoke. We’re invited to eat something, drink something, but we decline, not wanting to impact the family even more than we have.

This is Part 7. Part 8 coming soon.
Read Part 1.

NAPLES, ITALY, the week before christmas. At the Piazza Garibaldi bus stop outside the main train station Michele goes to buy a bus ticket while Bob and I scrutinize people. We spot a scary-looking hooked-nose pickpocket we’ve filmed but never met. He recognizes us and turns his back, steps behind a column. I inch forward to look at him; he retreats.

Across the street we identify Nuncio, the pickpocket-in-a-business-man-disguise who Bob stole a tie from so many years ago. Last time we saw Nuncio he greeted us with hugs and kisses. Michele and I trot across the street to speak with him. As Nuncio hops on a bus, Michele asks if we can speak for two minutes. “Not even one second!” Nuncio says with venom. Michele is unnerved.

Hooknose remains at the bus stop. Bob pushes Michele to go alone to request a conversation with him. Hooknose says “Get away with your cameras. You’ve already ruined five families!” Gentle Michele is shaken. I am shaken. We’re finding out how Naples’ thieves react to us after the broadcast of our film. Those who were in it: warmly. Those who weren’t: hostile.

The three of us take the subway to Montesanto in Quartieri Spagnoli to meet the famous screenwriters. Five of us settle into a corner table at a nearby nameless restaurant. The meal is simple and delicious: pasta, octopus, fish, and an assortment of vegetables. The restaurant entrance is lined with huge jugs of homemade limoncello. Bob and the screenwriters hit it off and our film is a step closer to reality.

We leave lunch to return to our hotel at 4:30 with little time to spare. Then we tram back to Circumvesuviana station at 5:30 to meet Michele and go back to see Luciano in the market with, hopefully, Angelo. Luciano is there with his wife again, and grown daughter Alessandra (not her real name), who is lounging on her Vespa. Alessandra is married to Mirco, another of the pickpockets in our film, currently in jail. (Mirco used a bank card from a stolen wallet at an ATM, and was IDed by the ATM surveillance video.)

Angelo could not make it: “he is in Roma. Will come tomorrow.” Bob is very disappointed and believes Angelo is avoiding us. But Luciano is full of more stories from his early days. Alessandra listens without much interest. I’m losing interest, too—it’s cold and I’ve been on my feet for days. Luciano says we should return at 1:30 tomorrow to meet Angelo. Bob is certain Angelo will not show up.

Leaving the market we once again pass through the Piazza Garibaldi bus stop outside the main train station, where Michele will catch his train home. Michele and I are a little spooked being there, after the chilling reception of the thieves earlier. I’m queasy standing there as we debrief, and cold, and feeling sensory-overload. We finally say goodnight to Michele. Bob and I walk down Corso Umberto toward our hotel, which is far away. Two blocks later, we find pacco men.

They’re selling iPads. Bob schmoozes with the very handsome seller, but they don’t have a common language. The pacco man phones his friend who is nearby and speaks English. The friend zooms up on a scooter driven by his wife and, before even arriving, waves and shouts that he remembers us from 5-6 years ago. He introduces himself as Carlos. We talk about the pacco business, which is the bait-and-switch business, just another form of stealing. We talk about the job market, or lack thereof, and life in Napoli.

After 15 minutes, I use Carlos’s real name, which I remember from May of 2002: Dante (another fake name I’m using for this story). He’s floored. “How do you know my name?! He’s amazed, shocked, impressed, and this adds a further level of trust and friendliness. Remembering a man’s name goes a long way in a nefarious reunion; even criminals are proud to be remembered.

Dante tells us he makes about €500 a week in the iPhone and iPad pacco trade. He said it’s getting harder because people know the trick. Bob asks the guys to demonstrate the switch. Dante demands €30 apiece for the three of them; we decline.

It’s only 8 p.m. but it’s been a very long, very standing day. An overwhelming day. Still, we choose to walk the long distance back, and decide to try the restaurant Nennella in Quartieri Spagnoli for dinner. We have more valuables on us tonight, but the restaurant is only a few blocks into the danger zone. We’re in luck: though there’s a big crowd waiting to get in, we’re only two and there’s a table for us right away. The place is all about fun. It used to be known for incredibly cheap good food. It’s still cheap, still good, not great. The entertaining waiters sing, dance, pantomime and inspire a lively, disorganized atmosphere. When a diner leaves a tip, he’s asked to throw it into a communal tip basket which is lowered from the ceiling by a rope, and all the waiters yell out “Grazie!”

This is Part 5. Read Part 6.
Read Part 1.

NAPLES, ITALY, the week before christmas. We take the tram to Circumvesuviana train station to meet Michele, with whom we intend to go find Luciano. Michele is late, stuck in traffic, so we go look for Luciano ourselves. The market is gorgeous, in a lively, primitive way. I’m not much use looking for Luciano if I’m ogling lush mounds of vegetables, shallow round trays of exotic shellfish in constantly freshened water, whole huge fish, and octopuses in five sizes. But we’re surprised to actually find Luciano and his cigarette stand. We had no idea what to look for: a shop? a kiosk? All we knew was that he sold cigarettes in the market somewhere.

We find him between the cabbages and bread loaves, across from a table of bras. His “stand” turns out to be a 15 x 20-inch tray containing 25-30 cigarette packs, which is set on an upturned carton. The cigarettes must be counterfeit or stolen, but we don’t know and we don’t ask. We wonder how he can make a living selling this small-profit item in such small numbers. Is it a front for something else?

Luciano is 63 now but he doesn’t look it. He didn’t look like 48 back when we first met him. His hair has almost no gray and his face is smooth, but his eyes are small and sad. I can’t tell if he’s surprised to see us or if he had an underworld heads-up. He introduces us to his wife and she mans the stand while he takes us to get coffee. We clown around a bit with the bartender, who recognizes us from the film. Luciano won’t allow us to pay for the coffee. As always, conversation with him is severely limited without a translator. We leave him at his stand and go wait for Michele at the train station.

Luciano speaks through Michele for hours. He’s taken aback when I remind him that we first met 14 years ago. He reminisces about our past meetings, including details I thought he’d have forgotten. Like the time he ran from us when we found him at work on a tram, then stopped, remembering us four blocks away and waiting for us to catch up.

Now we learn that Luciano was the first in his gang to start pickpocketing; that he was taught by Massimo Leo (not his real name), who is lionized as the best in town (and therefore the world). Massimo Leo is 56-58 now; in jail—or not, depending on who’s talking. In the beginning of his career Luciano made a lot of money. He bought a nice house, a car, good clothes, and luxuries. His friends saw him with all these things and wanted to join the trade and work with him. Eventually, he got sucked into gambling and lost everything.

Luciano lives just two minutes’ walk away. Bob wants to see his home and, more than that, he wants to meet Luciano’s brother Angelo. Luciano says come back at 5:30, Angelo will come.

This is Part 4. Read Part 5.
Read Part 1.