Thieves find us, continued. We’re not looking for pickpockets; just busy filming pickup shots on the bus for the documentary, when known thieves Marc and Andy board the bus with
Dinner with thieves. It’s 3:00. The film crew’s still perfecting camera angles, lighting, and table arrangements. I’ve taken my seat as requested, so cameras can be adjusted behind me. I’m
I guess I spoke too soon and too much about our documentary project. I held back information, but not enough. Our producer has asked me to block access, temporarily. That
The beautiful Post Oak Hotel in Houston has perfectly executed every detail from lobby to rooms, despite the incessant noise from the 610 freeway. Can’t imagine the sound level if I were lower than the 18th floor.
The shower is perfect. Lovely products, excellent hardware, beautiful marble mosaic floor. And note the city-view window!
But what is that little shelf way down at ankle level?
Now for a little comic relief in the insecurity world.
We can all hope for burglars this stupid and ineffective.
After Suzanne and Steve’s house was invaded and burgled, this photo was uploaded to Suzanne’s phone account. The boy is inside Suzanne’s stolen vehicle.
“John Smith” was driving 180 kph when he realized he’d just blasted through a speed trap outside of Johannesburg, South Africa.
“Knowing the police would come after me, I sped up. When I got around a bend I pulled over, jumped out of the car, and locked myself in the trunk. When the cops pulled up behind me I started banging on the trunk lid, as if I’d been locked in by carjackers.”
Does a pickpocket keep his appointments? Bob and I loitered on a corner with our interpreter. We were a unanimously doubtful trio already considering alternative plans for the day.
We’d found Kharem a week ago, almost a year after we first met him.
“Kharem!” I’d said, and his jaw dropped.
“Nice lady. You remember my name. I am honored.” He swept his thumbtip against his forehead, fingers fisted, in a quick, subtle gesture.
Heart of a Thief
Absolutely punctual, Kharem approached now with a smile and the thumbthing, that curious salute of his. He was immaculately dressed in a short-sleeved button-down shirt, white pants, suede loafers, and the inevitable tool over his arm: the jacket. We introduced him to our friend Ana, our interpreter for the day, and teased him about his punctuality.
“I wasn’t working today; I came straight from home. That’s why.”
We settled around the same table we used the week before and reminded ourselves and Ana to keep our voices down.
“What happens when you’re caught, Kharem?”
“When I’m caught, the police usually beat me up and take my money. It’s not bad because I won’t have to go to jail. Jail is like death. One hour of being there and I feel dead.” He signaled for a waiter.
“How long have you spent in jail?”
“Many times.”
“But how much time altogether?”
Kharem smiled with his mouth but not his eyes. He raised both index fingers and gestured as if conducting an orchestra.
“He won’t say,” said Ana. “I think he means let’s move on to something else.”
“Do you think the police recognize your face?”
“Yes, they do. But they know I never hurt any one. My crime is small. I’m not getting millions of euros. I’m not rich. I don’t have a drug habit to support…” He went on in Arabic-tinged Spanish.
“He seems to feel almost justified in what he’s doing,” Ana said, amazed. “He’s talking about the police who take his money, the politicians who get away with so much and never go to jail. And other financial… what do you call it?”
“White collar crime?”
“Yes, and that he never hurts people.”
Our drinks arrived: espresso for Bob and me, a beer for Kharem, a soda for Ana. Kharem passed the sugar and distributed napkins to each of us from an overpacked dispenser.
“How are you treated in jail?”
“It’s not pleasant. Look at my finger.” Kharem showed the mangled third finger of his right hand. “A guard did this to me. He handed me some papers and when I reached for them, he slammed shut the cell door. It was clearly intentional.”
He brightened. “Last Sunday, after we parted, I got a wallet with 1,000 euros. I used the postcards to do it.”
“Ah, no wonder you’re not working today. You took the whole week off!” I joked.
“No, I used that money to pay some fines. When I’ve paid them all, my record will be clear.”
“Do you save any money?”
“No. When I get enough, I pay my fines.”
“How will you ever get ahead?” Bob asked. “What about your future? What will you do when you’re old?”
“Who knows about the future. No one knows what will be tomorrow, anything could happen.” He reached to move a strand of windblown hair from my face, a gesture I found overly familiar, almost forward. “I live only for today. I live like a bird.” Thumb salute. “I am free.”
“What is this thing you do with your thumb?” I asked, copying the move.
“It means ‘good.’”
“I’ve never seen it before. Is it Algerian? Or Lebanese?”
“Combination,” he said dismissively, so I gave up.
“Did you go to school?”
“I can read and I can write. What more do I need of education?”
“What do you do when you’re not working,” I asked. “Do you have a passion for something?”
“I write poetry.”
“What about?”
“Freedom. Love. Family. Living like a bird.”
“Will you recite one for us?”
“They are in Arabic. I cannot.”
“Do you have family here in Barcelona?”
“No, I have no one. I have no friends. I am not allowed in France, where my daughter is. I haven’t seen my mother and father in 17 years and my brothers are dead. These are the people I love. If I cannot see my family, why should I see anyone? They are my friends. They are the ones I love.”
He did the thumbthing and smiled with his mouth but not his eyes.
Our hotel room in Paris had these gorgeous bathroom doors. Each door is made of one large plate of thick translucent glass in a wood frame. Bronze crossbars float above the glass without touching it, and there’s a little bronze ball of a handle on the inside. The doors are eight feet tall.
But what’s that little wire on the back of the door? It comes out of nowhere, emerging from the wall, loops a little, and connects to the door. I had to stand on the tub and stretch to take a photo of the top surface of the door. I thought I’d find a sensor for the lights, or trailing wires, or some clue. Nothing.
Still curious at checkout time, I asked the front desk staff who, of course, didn’t know. But they didn’t leave it there. They found a manager who explained.
Michael-G created his own black bar to be sure his identity would be hidden.
Hamburg, Germany—Undercover pickpocket cop Michael-G is the first person we’ve met who exceeds our own nutcase-level of fascination with pickpocketry.
The day we spent together a year ago was all nuts-and-bolts info-sharing, technique-talking, statistic-rattling, drollness-swapping, photo-showing, video-viewing…. You know, the usual for pickpocket enthusiasts.
Over the years we’ve come to know a few others with extreme interest or knowledge in street thievery. The first may have been Terry Jones in Barcelona, whom we met exactly ten years ago. His observations of the pickpockets and bag snatchers in his own neighborhood led him to compile a loooong page of local street-theft incidents. On the surfeit of simple, opportunistic pickpockets, he’d already come to the conclusion that “there is little in the way of evolutionary pressure to make them improve their methods. The tourists are too many and too unaware, the police are too few, and the laws are too slack.”
A friend of Michael-G's.
The mysterious Monsieur F in Paris is a passionate pickpocket cop who works as “an invisible man;” his identity cannot even be hinted at. As one might expect of a Frenchman, the guarded Monsieur F shares his emotions freely. He tells us that, although his priority is arresting thieves and keeping the public safe, he “sometimes finds victims unfriendly and pickpockets compelling.” For example, when he “arrests a thief with AIDS who has just stolen a purse with ten euros, it is difficult judge the morality…”
We had the great pleasure of introducing Michael-G to Monsieur F, and then heard from both of their delight in their new friendship and information-exchange.
Last week we spent a relaxing day at Michael-G’s tidy, upscale home in a sleepy Hamburg suburb where, over cappuccinos (he’s a first-rate barrista, too), Michael-G’s obsession with all things pickpocket could not be concealed.
His library is extensive, possibly comprising every book and film on pickpockets in existence (including my own book). A life-sized mannequin stands nearby, fully-suited, seven bells sewn to its pockets. Michael-G uses the mannequin in his lectures, but I suspect there’s a little more to the relationship.
A postcard from Michael-G's collection.
He’s taught himself to do a little stealing—for show, of course—so he can entertain and demonstrate at his police presentations. And he runs a website, http://www.taschendiebstahl.com.
Michael-G admits that he lives, breathes, and dreams pickpockets. Bob and I were most impressed by his pickpocket postcard collection. I didn’t even realize such things existed. They’re beautiful, mostly old, and from the world over.
Are there any pickpocket-obsessed painters or cartoonists out there?
Paccheri pasta, prepared by the pickpocket’s wife.
The shouting at dinner surprised me. It was like the stereotypical Italian dinner: loud and full of gesturing, standing up and leaning forward, voices rising over other voices and at the same time everyone is putting more food on each others’ plates.
But we were talking about the steal business—about pickpocketing—and the window was wide open. All the neighbors could certainly hear us discussing the thievery profession. Anyone within a block could hear.
Yet, the thief’s ten-year-old twins were farmed out for the evening to shield them from talk of daddy’s job. How could they not know if all the neighbors and passers-by hear about it?
Okay, so you now know we were in Italy. Well, it’s a big country. I’m giving you this much.
It was a nice apartment, neat and spotless. Two computers, huge flat-screen TV, dishwasher, even a Vitamix-type appliance for the serious cook. A dust-free collection of miniature silver clocks was displayed on dark wood shelves below the good china—for more important guests, I presume.
Our host maneuvered gamely at the kitchen counter, clearly not used to practicing the culinary arts. He sliced a fresh peach into a pitcher of white wine while explaining that the business was much easier ten years ago. Things are changing in this town. Younger plainclothes cops have joined the force; they’re more aggressive and harder to spot.
Mrs. Pickpocket had prepared a feast for us. Mozzarella balls, prosciutto on melon, hunks of provolone, olives, gorgeous crusty bread, marinated anchovies, octopus salad, cold eggplant… and that was just the antipasti. She had opened her polished wood table to seat all nine of us.
The home was ordinary—only noteworthy for its means of support. For twenty years, the family breadwinner has financed it all out of other people’s wallets.
Except when he’s in prison, of course. Then it all falls to his wife, who’ll get a job—or a couple of jobs—cooking, cleaning, whatever she has to do. Not easy in a town with perennial sky-high unemployment.
The thief used his skillful hands to grate the parmesan while his handsome wife brought out the pasta. Very al dente paccheri with a delicate sauce I think she called King Ferdinand. She learned to make it when she worked as a cook.
Another pickpocket was at the table with us—best friend and partner of our host. He’d brought his glamorous blond wife, who busied herself clearing plates and serving as if the kitchen were her own. As a couple, the two looked like any professionals you’d see at the bank on lunch hour. In fact, they’d had a life on the law’s side. A 30-year legit career had morphed into outright thievery. “I’ll explain how that happened next time we meet,” he told us.
The men kept hopping up to wash and reuse all the dishes and silverware between courses. Everyone except Bob and I and our translator smoked continuously. Thick slices of cold roast beef and chilled carrot puree came out long after Bob and I were fully satisfied.
“Sometimes police see us at work and look the other way,” our criminal friend explained. His handsome face looks almost angelic from some angles. Then I see something hard around his archer-bow mouth. Just nerves? Tension? “The police know there are no jobs here and that we have families to feed.”
Interesting! I had always assumed that cops looking the other way meant payoffs and corruption. The humanitarian possibilities hadn’t occurred to me.
A giant cream-topped baba cake was sliced for dessert, and tiny glasses of limoncello, a lemon liqueur, were poured. It was after midnight by the time we were drinking espresso and told not to worry, we’d sleep just fine.
I won’t bore you, readers, with technical talk of the pilfering profession. The evening was long and jovial, loud and serious, sad and enlightening. As I said in To Like a Pickpocket, we are conflicted in our relationship with this thief. One can’t suppress affection if that feeling exists.
This man comes from a world so different from ours. It’s not just his profession that is the inverse of ours; his country, his temperament, his education are all antithetical. Yet, on a baser level, a human level, we want the same things, feel the same emotions, have the same needs. If you pay attention, you see through a fake smile. And you recognize a real hug.
The pickpocket must remain unidentified for now. Last year, he let Bob go for a spin on his bike.
With nervousness and excitement, we are preparing to visit the home of one of those controversial figures: the thief you hate to love. Bob and I have completely fallen for his warmth and charm. True, he did steal Bob’s wallet about a year ago; we can’t deny his filthy profession. We’d certainly find it harder to like the man had the wallet been full of cash and credit cards. As it happened, the thief stole our prop wallet which was stuffed with cut paper.
We had observed him as he and his crew boarded the bus we were already riding. We looked away as the threesome crowded around us. We understood that they were unnecessarily close—the bus was not full.
Even with his focus solely on sensing the suspects and hypertuned to his butt pocket, Bob did not feel the steal. They were that good.
We suspected from their behavior that they got it. Bob slid his hand across his empty pocket and said to me “Yep.” I knew what he meant. We followed the trio off the bus at the next stop.
That’s when we met. It was last September, during the filming of our upcoming documentary, in that foreign city I’m asked to leave unidentified for now. (Expected broadcast: October 2011.) Something clicked right away between Bob and the pickpocket. They’ve been corresponding by email ever since.
Why have they bonded? Bob Arno is a straight-laced American Swede reluctant to jaywalk, an introvert who maintains his gray matter and circulatory system at a low temperature. The pickpocket is a charismatic scoundrel and a gregarious, hot-blooded free spirit. Both men are calculating manipulators in their different ways. The introvert’s shell is cracked by the beguiling rogue. The crook swoons at the attention of someone from the other side. It’s symbiotic, but I’m not sure how.
Google Translate is a godsend but the human translations we get are amazing. People who read for us wipe away a tear, hug their own goosefleshed arms, and exclaim about the man’s writing. He has a special way of expressing himself, they say; he turns a beautiful phrase; he is poetic.
We’ve set the pickpocket the task of writing his life story, bit by bit. He’s off to a promising start. We hope to help him publish an autobiography. Neither we nor he know where this might lead.
His grammar is far from perfect. He doesn’t use any capital letters or the return key for new paragraphs. He didn’t spend many years in school and has never before tried to express himself in writing. Not only is he good so far, but he’s loving it. He feels a hidden talent has been unlocked. For that, no matter what comes of it, he thanks Bob.
We are preparing to travel far to meet him in a few days. We have engaged an expensive translator—someone we know, and know is good. Someone who is on our side, and will not color the conversation.
A dinner is planned. It will be in the home of the pickpocket. His wife is a good cook, we’re told. It will be a party. Other thieves will attend, some of whom we already know. Who else will be there?
We’ll arrive at the thieves’ den with generous hostess gifts. Also with video and audio recording equipment, and probably a laptop. Much can go wrong.
As always, one of us is a little nervous and insists on precautions. The other is confident, relaxed, eager. I’ll report back shortly…
The life of a pickpocket might seem to be an easy one. Want money? Just take it. Need more? Pick a tourist from the endless stream.
It’s not that simple. The ratio of successful attempts to failures depends upon the practitioner, as does the number of butterflies in the stomach. Apprehension is both what he fears and what he feels. Most pickpockets we’ve met have spent years in prison, have paid hefty fines, have been roughed up by victims and police, have quit the business, and have gone back to it.
Many despise what they do and wish to make an honest living. What holds them back? Local unemployment levels. Lack of education. Lack of skills. Criminal records. Illegal residence status. Low earning potential compared to status quo.
The job has redeeming factors, aside from the obvious downside. Work the days and hours you choose. No boss to answer to. (Or you might have one, in an organized crime gang.) Overtime whenever you want it. No taxes to pay.
To like a pickpocket
Strangely, it is possible to like these guys, despite knowing what they do for a living. Despite understanding the damage and upset they cause. Like you and me, there’s more to the pickpocket than his job. Wait! I’m not defending his choice of livelihood! I’m suggesting (as we already know) that there’s more to a man (or woman) than his job. Anyone know a debt collector? An email spammer? A telephone solicitor? A drug dealer? A lobbyist? A billboard doctor?
You might get to know (and like) someone before learning the despicable (in your opinion) job he does. You might get to know and like a person whose job you do find contemptible. We judge the morality and integrity of people around us, of people in the news, and sometimes glimpse more shadiness than in any pickpocket.
At a certain age, usually 45 or so, pickpockets tire of the carousel: the highs of walking away with a wallet, the lows of prison time, the ecstasy of acquiring a thick wad, the anxiety of looking over their shoulders. Their kids growing up without them while they’re on the road following the crowds at big events, or while they’re “in the box.” They want to quit. But they’re at a loss as to what to do. What can they do? Who will hire them?
We (and some big-hearted police officers we know) have tried to assist a few of these guys. We’ve put ourselves on the line for them. spent time, effort, and money trying to get them a jump start on a new life. We’ve believed them. We’ve seen them off on the right track. It never works.
Or it hasn’t so far. But we can’t give up. We get to know another thieving criminal with potential, with desire, with hope and hopelessness, and we’re taken in. Suckers for the con, maybe.
