Hoodwinked opened Tuesday night at the gorgeous State Theater in Easton, PA. It was the first show of our five-city east coast tour and we couldn’t be happier with it. Spectacular theater, perfect tech, 1,000 people packed in, all of whom shot out of their seats for an enthusiastic standing ovation.
It was a huge success.
We’re playing Lyman Center for the Performing Arts in New Haven tonight. The tour is only six shows in five cities in five days. Here’s the remaining show schedule.
Article in today’s Schenectady Daily Gazette
How did I learn to become a pickpocket? That’s the most common question I get after my presentations and during television interviews. They want to know if I started out as a street pickpocket and if I had a thief mentor à la Fagin.
No. I had a comedy mentor.
As a teenager, I had a strong sense of sarcastic observation humor, which later became my stage persona and trademark. But as a young Swedish entertainer, I had a difficult time grasping the finer points of comedy writing. One man helped me tremendously. This post is in memory of a great comedic mind, a supportive buddy, and a long-time close friend.
His name was Holger Enge, and no other creative mind had a stronger impact on my career. Holger will be sorely missed, not just by me but by the hundreds of friends, business associates, and all the comedy acquaintances who came in contact with him at trade shows, business dealings, and in private.
Holger died too young. Only 61, he became a victim of a rather rare illness called Cushing’s Syndrome.
He and I were friends for more than thirty years. In the early seventies most of my engagements were in production shows at various casinos around the world. By that time, I had established myself as a respected …˜specialty act.’ There was no shortage of offers and I was lucky in that engagements usually lasted for a year in each venue. It gave me a tremendous opportunity to experiment with new material.
Although I had my pickpocket act down pat, a twenty-two-minute audience participation presentation that was foremost a mélange of visual situation humor, I craved strong …˜lines’ and clever patter. I was obsessed in my search for better banter. Having English as my second language didn’t make this challenge any easier. I taped comedians on talk shows at every opportunity. My goal was to analyze the structure and the set-ups of the jokes. My heroes were Don Rickles, Shecky Greene, and Richard Pryor.
It was at this time that I met Holger Enge. He quickly became my main writer. While other specialty acts were concerned with buying comedy props, I was dreaming heckler lines twenty-four hours a day. Holger lived in Toronto and I was working in Freeport, Grand Bahamas, when I saw a small ad in Variety newspaper. Holger was offering a comedy newsletter with generic comedy lines for disc jockeys. I bought a few issues and was impressed.
In 1973 I asked Holger if he would write specifically for my show and especially for my watch routines. In those years he charged around $25 for each line I approved. A lot of this was on spec. I would receive a fresh lot of pages every two weeks or so. There was a lot of correspondence back and forth defining material, declining and/or approving structure and re-writes. He nailed it. He really understood my style, but it soon became obvious that he had to come and see my show to take this collaborative effort to a higher plateau.
I invited Holger to come and visit me in Freeport for a week and see what we could do together, as a team, versus a long-distance affair. And so started a long and productive friendship. I invited him to come and stay with me in different places around the world, mostly in the West Indies, and in London. And I introduced him to a few other comedy performers who also liked his style and creative mind. His lines were snappy and fresh, often a tad risqué, but no more blue than other comedians’ lines at the time. I eagerly waited for his envelopes with the usual pages of comedy lines.
This went on for many years. It was a rush to open up the pages, try out some of the lines, and see what hit home and what only got lukewarm response. Eventually my own style changed, and I was finally able to create my own comedy, often at the spur of the moment. The need for an outside writer was no longer as important. But it was Holger who gave me the confidence and the direction I needed to realize my dream of success as comedy performer. I was no longer remembered only for my pickpocketing stunts, but for my comedy attitude, too.
Holger was very much instrumental in this achievement. I wonder how many successful entertainers, or other artists, can attribute their success to one particular individual? Or how many would like to acknowledge the influence of one source?
In the last four months, since the onset of his illness, he wrote some of his best observation humor—about his own health and his many experiences with hospitals, tests, and experts. On meeting his surgeon “with the gravest face you have ever seen,” he said his “palpitations sped up to match the heartbeat of a hummingbird on crack!”
With the swelling in my face, I look a bit like a pink gold fish. Better yet, if you can find some bright yellow hypo-allergenic face paint, you can do up my face like a giant SMILE button, slap a string on my ass, and take me out on Halloween! You’ll get a lot of candy!
There was plenty of clowning around in Muscat last week. In the souk, Bob put a camera on a tripod and walked away from it. We wouldn’t do that in most of the places we visit, including other countries under strict Sharia law. But this Omani souk, crowded with locals, had a comfortable, family atmosphere.
Bob held a remote and snapped a few test shots. Without warning, this happy man danced into our shot. These two women also stepped in front of the shutter. A large number of women were completely covered, not even eye slits in their black face veils. Some wore sunglasses on top of full face veils.
I understand that Muslim women must cover themselves, but in 110 degree heat, their multiple layers must be torture. Bob was drenched in a loose, light-as-air shirt. I was hot in my two skimpy layers.
The local women wore long pants and long sleeves under their abayas and veils, and some wore scarves, too. Omani women wear very long abayas, “taller than themselves,” a custom which dates back to their Bedouin days, when even a woman’s footprints in the sand should not be seen. The long gown gracefully erased them. Omani men wear a tassel at the neck of their dishdasha, which is drenched in scent to enhance male-to-male hugs.
Bob plopped down among a group of men who happily gave permission to be photographed, despite their dubious expressions here. Turns out they were right to doubt the intentions of the tall skinny Western man with unseemly bare legs.
It wasn’t long before Bob had the watch of one of the men. After a suitable moment of laughter from the others, Bob returned the watch and was admonished with a smile.
I’m happy to report that Bob left town with both hands intact.
At the Muscat airport, we had to sit in the lobby an hour, waiting for check-in to begin. We found chairs in a “family section,” which was filled mostly with women (about 30) and small children, and a few couples. About half the women were fully covered; meaning, not even eyes showing. The rest were bare-faced or only eyes showing, plus one Indian in a sari, and one Muslim nanny in an ordinary headscarf. I watched the little children run around, ages 2 to 6, and wondered how they identified their mothers. The women had no peripheral vision; I wondered if they can even see to step off a curb.
High-end shops are popular in the Arab world. Women buy the latest Prada and Versace outfits, then cover them with abayas. At social gatherings, the women gather in a private room and remove their abayas.
Bob and I are proud to announce our mini East Coast tour this November. We’re excited to be doing a ticketed show, open to the public, and we’re thrilled to be working with three other enormously talented con artists, all in one show.
So often we’re asked where Bob can be seen live, but all his performances these days are private corporate events. Finally, for one week in November, you can buy a ticket and see the World’s Only Legal Pickpocket live on stage.
The show, Hoodwinked, stars Todd Robbins, Banachek, and Richard Turner, along with Bob Arno. You can read about the four of them in my earlier post.
Here’s the schedule of our mini-tour:
Nov. 18 — State Theatre, Easton, PA, 8 pm
Nov. 19 — Lyman Center, New Haven, CT, 8 pm
Nov. 20 — Proctors Theatre, Schenectady, NY, 8 pm
Nov. 21 — Tarrytown Music Hall, Tarrytown, NY, 8 pm
Nov. 22 — City Stage, Springfield, MA, 3 pm and 8 pm
See you there?
[Finally, a few words from Bob Arno.]
As we travel the world every year, we interact with organized crime figures, street criminals, and security personnel along the way, observing and absorbing the latest trends in criminal behavior and the latest techniques. Over the past twenty years, I have maintained dialogs and communications with some rather interesting criminal minds on four continents. But talking about security issues and criminal behavior, on the internet or to media in general, is always a dilemma. Yes, it’s useful to reveal the latest scoop about the rogue fringe of society, but by bringing revelations into the open we might tip our hand to the bad guys.
Striking up conversations with criminals usually means we first have to detect them, identify them, and somehow confirm that they really are thieves—unless we have direct cooperation from law enforcement agencies. We’ve developed unique skills in detecting criminal behavior and patterns that we recognize before the crimes take place. Modern crime prevention is often based on similar methods and techniques, and written into algorithms for computer analysis. Yes, they are obviously very different depending on the country where the criminals are active, the type of crimes anticipated, and other cultural factors. In security circles, a common word for this analytical activity is “redflagging.”
The kick-in-the-pants for this post came from an incident we became privy to in Atlanta last week, while there to address the ASIS annual conference—the world’s largest security convention. Kevin Mitnick, the famous (or infamous) former hacker—is there such a thing as former hacker?—was also there, as a presenter and panel host on Internet abuses. Kevin, always full of new anecdotes and intriguing …˜backend’ stories, is an old friend of ours. It was his exhaustive airport encounter earlier that day (with ICE, US customs, and the FBI) that got me thinking about redflagging, which is what entangled Kevin.
In the past few weeks, two books have been published which both indirectly focus on redflagging, how to isolate a certain behavior from the norm, and then to draw conclusions. This is not exactly science, but reasonable speculation. Behavior is an extension of human emotion; it’s difficult to completely suppress our emotions, and therefore our behavior.
The new books are The War Within: Secret White House, by Bob Woodward, and The Numerati, by Stephen Becker. Both books allude to new and secret formulas used by the U.S. government as well as the private sector, to fight terrorism and crime in general. Woodward’s book speculates about isolating terrorist leaders and taking them out with precise weapons. In his blog, Schneier on Security, Bruce Schneier wagers that Woodward is talking about “tagging.” The speculation centers around new technologies, but we can be quite certain that some algorithms on behavior are reasons for the new successes in the war on terrorism.
The other book, The Numerati, is not about politics or security developments. It’s about the latest trends in analyzing emerging patterns by drilling through data banks. A good review, “Drilling Through Data,” can be read in The Wall Street Journal, and there’s an interview with the author on NPR. The book discusses security software analytics. The last part of the book covers irregular pattern recognition and Jeff Jonas’ work in the casino industry. A good introduction to the world of Jeff Jonas and his contribution to the security industry is posted in O’Reilly’s Etech Conference pages from March 2008. Jeff Jonas works for IBM (and we assume for divisions of our National Security Agency, in some capacity or another). To get the gist of his talk on casino scams and how to detect crime in casinos using surveillance technology coupled with databases of known criminals, you have to drill further. This is very good reading for those with an interest in irregular pattern recognition.
Neither book sheds any precise information on what we want to know most: what are the security agencies concentrating on when they assemble their “trip wires” for redflagging? And that’s good; why should we let the other side know how they’re spotted?
In its most simplistic application, analytics are used in surveillance software in the retail and hospitality industries, and in public places. For example, the scanning of individuals hovering or loitering around an entrance or in a hotel lobby; the number of seconds a cash register’s drawer stays open in a store; how the hands of the employee at that cash register move; the angle of the hand holding the credit card (think portable skimmers).
All of which is just foreplay to the real issue: the behavior of terrorists. What speed or pace and how do they walk when approaching a target? How does a female terrorist behave differently from a male? How do they behave when stopped or challenged? And most important, what about their face reactions? Can a telephoto video scanner pick up micro-expressions and can the latest research by people like Dr. Paul Ekman and Mark Frank map these movements with accuracy?
For some interesting current examples of micro-expressions, watch again the recent Sarah Palin interview on ABC Evening News with Charles Gibson.  The moments for interpretation come at three minutes and 59 seconds, when Charles Gibson asks her if she has ever met with foreign heads of states. More of the same expressions when Gibson asks whether Russia was provoked to go into Georgia, five minutes and 13 seconds into the interview. And finally, at eight minutes and 34 seconds, at the question about the Bush Doctrine. Whether the clenching, lip protrusion, closing of eyes, and swaying can be interpreted as precise proof of one thing or another is up to the students of Paul Ekman.
Redflagging as a form of profiling is controversial. My points above illustrate how complex and far-reaching the conclusions may be to our society. I have not even touched on the privacy angle, the national security aspects, and what the bad guys can do to counteract the revelations made by media on the latest security innovations. Ultimately it comes down to the old argument: what do we keep secret (for national security) and what do we allow the public to know in order to protect privacy and maintain open political dialogs?
My objective today is to draw attention to the constant need to fine-tune information analytics. It is the lack of qualified experts drawing useful conclusions, which has triggered all kinds of recent mishaps, near financial ruin, and security lapses. This article is not meant to start new political discussions on security secrecy or privacy protection. Others who specialize in advancing and protecting both viewpoints are far more qualified.
[The facial features above belong to confirmed criminals, photographed during interrogation.]
At the Atlanta airport last week, a limo driver stood holding a sign marked “Bob Arno.” Next to him stood another driver holding a sign marked “Kevin Mitnick.” You remember Kevin Mitnick, the young hacker imprisoned for five years, released in early 2000. Remember the “Free Kevin” campaign? The guy who popularized the term “social engineering”? Kevin calls himself a non-profit hacker, since he hacked into computer systems for the fun and challenge, and gained nothing of significance.
We knew Kevin would be in Atlanta—we were all there to present at ASIS, the huge security industry conference. But Kevin was flying in straight from a job in Colombia, so we didn’t expect to arrive in sync.
First we social-engineered his driver to learn where Kevin would be staying. Same hotel as us. Then the chatty driver said that Kevin had been due in two hours ago. Huh. We left a note with the driver inviting Kevin to dinner later and left.
The airport parking attendant held us hostage. Our driver had given him the parking ticket, but he wouldn’t raise the barrier to let us pass. Something was wrong with his computer, he said. We waited. After five minutes, we requested our ticket be returned so we could go to one of the other booths, which were all empty. No car was behind us, either. The attendant refused. Bob got out of the car and demanded the ticket back, fed up with our driver’s polite style of dealing with this ticket moron. No luck. The man kept his head down in his glass booth, impervious. Neither logic nor threats worked, and it was twelve minutes before we were allowed to exit the airport parking.
We caught up with Kevin several hours later, and he told a hold-up tale that made thoughts of our little delay evaporate completely. U.S. Customs had detained him and questioned him about his many trips to Colombia.
“I have a girlfriend there,” Kevin said.
“Have you ever been arrested?”
“Yes.” Kevin couldn’t lie to federal agents.
“What for?”
“Hacking.”
“Were you hacking in Colombia?”
“Yes, but that’s my job. I was hacking for a company that hired me, to see if their system is secure.”
As Customs officers began examining Kevin’s luggage, his cell phone rang. It was his girlfriend in Bogota, hysterical. Meanwhile, an officer lifted Kevin’s laptop. Kevin wasn’t concerned about it. He routinely wipes his hard drive before crossing borders, shipping an external drive containing his data to his destination. Everyone in the field of information security knows the Department of Homeland Security’s new policy:
Federal agents may take a traveler’s laptop or other electronic device to an off-site location for an unspecified period of time without any suspicion of wrongdoing, as part of border search policies…
“FedEx called,” the girlfriend said in her poor English, “they found cocaine in the hard drive!”
Kevin’s face went white and was instantly drenched in sweat. He wondered who could have put cocaine in his hard drive: his girlfriend? the packing/shipping storefront where he dropped it off? He assumed, understandably, that the hard drive seizure somehow prompted this Customs search.
“What are you doing here in Atlanta?” the Customs officer demanded.
“Speaking at the ASIS conference, moderating a panel on internet abuses. Here, I’ll show you.” He took the laptop and launched Firefox, intending to open the ASIS keynote web page. First, he hit “clear private data” and glanced at the officer, who instantly realized his own stupidity. The officer snatched back the computer.
Other officers pulled suspicious items from Kevin’s bags. Out came another laptop, which they started up, thinking they’d found gold, unaware that they’d need a password and dongle to access the real guts of that machine. Then they pulled out a large, silvery, antistatic bag and extracted its weird contents.
“They thought they found the mother-lode,” Kevin told us, able to smile in retrospect. And we could imagine why, looking at the thing.
“What’s this, huh?” the agent smirked. Like, how are you going to explain this one away? We gottcha now!
“It’s an HID key spoofer,” Kevin explained to a blank face. “Like your ID card there. You just wave your card at the door to go through, right? I just need to get close to your card and press a little button here. Then I can go through, too. This thing becomes a copy of your card key.”
“Why do you have it?” the officer demands accusingly.
“Because I demonstrate it at security conferences like ASIS.”
Somehow, Kevin kept his cool throughout four hours of grilling. When he was finally allowed to use a phone, he called an FBI agent who was to be on the panel he’d be moderating, and the FBI agent cleared him.
Having lost so much time, Kevin declined our dinner invitation, since he needed to prepare for his presentation. After listening to his long tale, Bob and I headed out to dinner alone. We found the French American Brasserie—quite worth raving about. http://www.fabatlanta.com/ Although we both ordered moules marinière, hardly a test for a brasserie, we enjoyed the meal thoroughly, along with the decor, ambiance, and service.
Kevin had been red-flagged, of course. He found out later that Customs knew nothing of the cocaine in his hard drive. He also found out that there wasn’t any cocaine in his drive. There may have been a few grains on the outside of the package, but it came from Colombia, right? Still, the drive had to be ripped open to determine that it was drug-free, and it wasn’t clear whether or not the disk itself had been damaged.
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.
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
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?
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?
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.
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.
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.
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 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.
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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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.