Actual, working pickpockets discuss their demonstrations in Bob Arno’s National Geographic documentary “Pickpocket King”
With over two million views, our 50-minute National Geographic documentary “Pickpocket King” continues to raise questions. Here, Bob Arno addresses the frequently discussed issues of why the active pickpockets showed themselves in the film, and how they feel about it now.
Few people realize that pickpockets can roam across most of Europe with impunity, not getting caught if they work in a team. Since pickpocketing is a non-violent crime a judge will seldom mete out a prison sentence when they are caught, unless a victim testifies in court and a police officer observed the act. In Italy, victims seldom testify, and certainly not in Naples. Mess with the Camorra and you stand the chance of much worse happening to you than losing a wallet.
When pickpockets work in teams one member of the troupe makes sure there are no undercover police officers nearby to witness the theft. They can usually spot the cops before the cops recognize the pickpockets—a cat-and-mouse game in extreme. Each member in the pickpocket crew has a specific duty or position during the set-up and extraction. This was not detailed clearly in our National Geographic documentary, Pickpocket King.
Most of the pickpockets in Naples are already well-known to the police (and most have served time). So those thieves who showed themselves in the film were not afraid of becoming known to the police or damaging their reputations. Maybe, just maybe, their participation in the film in fact helped them with an argument that they cooperated in spreading useful information on how people might avoid becoming victims. For the pickpockets who were on parole, their participation may even have helped convince a judge that they were trying to go straight. Yes—Naples is a charming city but also a very cynical one.
But in retrospect, all the pickpockets are unhappy today that they were featured in our film. Not because of law enforcement, but because the global success of the film on Youtube makes their work harder. Tourists know now to beware. But the pickpockets never expected the viral success of the Pickpocket King documentary.
The film teaches a traveler’s best defense against pickpocketing: know in advance what to expect and take proper precautions, especially on crowded public transportation. And then enjoy the charm of Naples and its surroundings. Bambi and I feel it is one of the greatest tourist destinations on earth because of the diversity, unique charm, fabulous food, and true warmth of the people.
Bob Arno writes about his brother. Bambi interrupts.
Claes in July 2014
Over the years I have written about my mentors, my old friends who have had a significant impact on my career, as well as a few obituaries — friends who were taken from us way too early. Writing about mentors is not hard, just go back in time and analyze why they were unique and how they extended themselves and helped a young inexperienced entertainer.
But today I have a far more personal challenge, in the midst of my sorrow for the loss of my own brother. He passed away about ten days ago, at age seventy. That’s far too early for a Swedish man who lived healthy, never excessive, and always in great trim shape.
Bambi: It was only two summers ago that he lifted tall Frida from the ground when she hurt her ankle on a trampoline in Arizona, and carried her like a baby a long distance to a sofa. He carried her as if she weighed nothing. In retrospect, we know that Claes was already ill, though none of us knew it. But he was still strong as an ox!
How does one explain the random selection of cancer victims? In my work I am obsessed with pattern recognition and the logic of why some people become victims (to criminals)—it’s all very neat and clear when looking at the bigger picture. But cancer can strike anyone, young or old, with little warning, as was the case with my brother. A little over a year ago he noticed he couldn’t quite swallow food as easily as before. He suspected some sort a throat infection. In September 2013 the tests came in: advanced esophageal cancer, located at the bottom of the esophagus, as well as smaller tumors in the stomach. No option to operate, only chemo therapy remained.
The doctors gave him a year, at best, and that is exactly what he got. In this year he never gave up, never resigned, but knew deep down that it was probably hopeless. He prepared as most cancer patients do for the inevitable. The legal documents, the transfer of properties, the farewell parties with his closest friends. Nobody around him suspected the rapid deterioration. Yes, his weight became an obvious red flag, but he did not look gaunt, and his face had the same round, filled-out cheeks as before. When he was in a good mood, nobody could possibly suspect that we all counted days and weeks.
My brother, Claes, lived in Sweden, where end-of-life health care is exemplary and caring. Every evening a nurse came by and hooked Claes to a drip tube, connected to a port in his upper chest close to his neck. During the night he would then receive about a liter of a milky nutritious fluid, while sleeping. Every morning the nurse returned and disconnected the tube. No, it was not good “quality of life,” since he could barely eat anything at all for close to a year. Always nauseous, and during the last six months of his life steadily more in pain, as the tumors grew and pressed against spine and sensitive nerve centers. Strong doses of morphine only sometimes helped.
Claes—so often laughing
So why did he maintain the illusion that maybe there was still hope for a new miracle drug? Stronger men at age 69-71 might have said “I had a good life, enough is enough, let’s not pretend anymore.” But Claes enjoyed every minute he had on the telephone with his friends, with me and my wife, and simply living another day. For 365 days when I couldn’t be with Claes, I called him daily for about an hour. We stayed with him whenever we could and behaved like we always did. Sat around the dining table and joked around, talked over current events, old anecdotes, and memories. There were lots of those and lots of laughter.
Bambi: Like that utterly believable postcard Claes sent us from Naples, pretending to be a gang of thieves thanking us for visiting Naples, and complimenting the film National Geographic made about us and them. It was brilliant, the way he mixed a little Italian in with poor English. Did Claes, with his love of all things Italian, and his reverence for the ultimate practical joke, travel to Naples just to send that postcard? It would be just like him…
But I never brought up the obvious: what do we do for Claes’s funeral, who should attend, how should we deal with this or with that? We both pushed aside the inevitable, the closure of it all. But he was not living in a dream world. He knew full well that some things just had to be done, despite the great expense in terms of his energy.
Sweden does not seem to have an end-of-life option for the patient, as is the case in the Netherlands and Switzerland. But there does not seem to be a heated dialog, either, like in the United Kingdom, about patients’ right to request a doctor’s help to terminate life. Having watched my brother suffer for a year I must ask myself why there are no choices. I’m not going to list all the horrible and painful moments my brother experienced in front of my very eyes. In retrospect, when everything is said and done, I think he still would have preferred to live just the number of days he squeezed out of his treatment and the help from the Swedish medical support system. But I would have chosen a different tack, which only means that people have different preferences and there should be an option for ALL. Not forced medical support (for whatever reason).
Bob and Claes
My relationship with my brother was unique. During the early years of my career he helped extensively with the management of promotional material back in Sweden when I was traveling around the world. But my work in the sixties was mainly outside of Sweden with few visits to my home country and so we were not as regular or intimate as in later years. Long distance phone calls in those days were costly affairs, only to be used for urgent matters. It was not until the early eighties, thirty five years ago, that I re-cemented my close friendship with my brother and we started to visit each other’s homes. Eventually this grew to extended stays on two continents, permanent possession of each other’s house keys, and “my house is your house.” We regularly visited one another for months on end.
Loved to make others laugh.
Bambi: When in the U.S., Claes often referred to himself as an “Okie” or a country bumpkin when he felt unfamiliar with an American tradition. Like the time he drove alone to a plant nursery and his car was rushed by a gang of shouting Mexicans. Cold sweat, pounding heart, knuckles white on the steering wheel, Claes inched forward, terrified. Oh, did we ever laugh about that experience! Just a word of the story could forever after bring any of us to gales of laughter.
The friendship was equally warm between Claes and my wife. They were like brother and sister. We were a unique trio with shared interests and missed each other very much when apart. I would assume that only married couples or siblings can have the kind of close and warm relationship that years of sharing fosters. It was the humor, the jokes, the ribbing, the advice, the practical jokes, the insults, and the support, that was unique and is now missed.
There wasn’t a dinner or a telephone chat (thank you Skype) when we weren’t laughing uproariously.
Bambi: Remember when Claes bit into a Chinese fortune cookie, made a face, and complained that there was paper in his cookie?
Bambi and Claes
Gags or lines often in bad taste or politically incorrect, but biting and pure. No facade or pretense, just gutsy and honest observations with ever-present sardonic over-tones. Guards-down: the sort of rapport you can otherwise only have with a mate from school or the military, and hopefully with your marriage partner. (Or as they call them in Sweden “sambo.” Only forty percent of Swedish people marry—the rest live together under the label “sambo.” Never any spousal support after a break up, but child support works the same way, married or “sambo.”)
Claes had two lengthy “sambo” relations, each lasting about ten years. But he lived alone for the last fifteen years. He felt he lived full life, but regretted that he had not found a partner to share his later years with. He had a preference for exotic appearance and had relations in Latin America and the Middle East which never materialized into something that could become reality back in Sweden.
Bambi: Maybe he lived alone because of his famous stubbornness, huh? Would anyone else behave the way Claes did when airport security told him he couldn’t fly with his pocketknife? He wouldn’t give it up to the security officer, whom he knew would keep the gorgeous little knife. Instead, he was determined to destroy it. Except… it was a strong little knife, a fine German one, and he almost missed his flight because it took him so long!
His love was travel, photography, and the study of ancient civilizations (art, monuments, and history). He spent fifty years taking magnificent photos in every corner of the globe. He was a lecturer in Sweden with a strong following and his appearances always drew an adoring crowd of fans. It was not a big financial reward since culture lectures are not exactly big money-makers, but he was re-booked over and over for the same venues, year after year.
He’s up there somewhere…
Bambi: Let’s not forget his love of tree-killing! Has any man felled more trees than Claes has? I was awed when I watched him single-handedly take down a huge mesquite in a tricky position at our Vegas house. But it was nothing compared to seeing him waving in the wind at the top of a giant fir on his country house property—a man with a fear of heights, yet! Over the years, I’ve watched his mountain of tree roots grow.
Oh, we did so much together. We gardened, we went on petroglyph-seeking road trips, we cooked. He taught me to make a killer Jansson’s frestelse. We made flädersaft together with the most old-fashioned tools.
The mountains of tree stumps in 2009.
All his friends will remember Claes for two things. His kindness and his desire to help. For many years he worked in human resources and it is amazing how many old friends have now come forward and expressed sorrow over Claes’s passing, always commenting on how much he helped them both professionally and with private trauma and complexities. He was a sensitive soul who wished well for others and always extended himself to others and their need for support.
When we were quite young, maybe about 12 years old, he wrote on a door to a tool shed that I had, “Claes is kind.”
I guess you could characterize Claes with those words—Claes is kind. I believe his friends will all remember Claes first and foremost as a kind and funny guy who passed away much too early.
I recently wrote about beggars on the streets of Stockholm. I observed that an abundance of beggars are now stationed in the streets, and that they are mostly from Romania. I argued that these beggars are organized, and possibly trafficked, that a large portion of collected money goes to “bosses,” and that Swedes are naive and therefore an easy market for the begging enterprise, which is in large part social engineering. The article became quite controversial, especially in Sweden.
Roma beggars in Stockholm take a breakA street in Constanta, RomaniaA street in Constanta, RomaniaA street in Constanta, RomaniaGypsy family in RomaniaA gypsy woman, mother of five children, who collects plastic bottles for a living.A little girl’s rough living.A gypsy woman, mother of five children, who collects plastic bottles for a living.Constanta, Romania skyline
Now, after making a trip to Romania, I have some follow-up information. (But you have to read through my rant before you get it.)
Romanian beggars in Sweden
Swedes are reluctant to believe that their cities and towns have been besieged by professional beggars. Despite the thousands of Romanian beggars in evidence, Swedes stubbornly insist that these are simply individual unfortunate humans who can survive by no other means. For some reason, Swedes excuse them from working for a living. Despite the fact that the Romanian beggars (individually!) all use the exact same posture, the same dress mode, the same plastic bundles of personal effects, the same blanket-wrap and paper cup and laminated photo—even the exact same laminated photo of the very same children. Despite the fact that prime “locations” seem to be continuously occupied, with methodical rotations of personnel so that the position is never vacant, never vulnerable to being usurped by a competitor. Despite the fact that these locations follow a scheme favoring the doors of particular grocery and liquor stores and subway entrances, all over Stockholm and all over Sweden.
Really. Are these Romanian beggars—all the several thousands of them—each sole and separate individuals, each uneducated, each unable to work, each self-organized?
Is Sweden a country of ostriches with their heads buried in the sand? Not quite. Sweden holds a native population intensely dependent on social proof. Everyone is terrified of committing inappropriate behavior, voicing an unpopular belief, not conforming to the group mentality. Everyone’s afraid of appearing to lack compassion, sympathy, charity, and brotherly love. Everyone’s afraid of appearing racist.
For an excellent example of this attitude, take a look at an August 28, 2014 article in Metro, the free paper distributed on Swedish trains. “No, the beggars are not controlled by criminal gangs,” is a translation of the Swedish headline. Its main source of intelligence is a Swedish “homelessness coordinator.” I don’t know, but I would suspect that Romanians who occupy Sweden for the purpose of begging do not go to the state for housing. That’s why they have bosses! To organize them, find them places to sleep. Also note that they carry their possessions around with them in sacks, like old-fashioned hobos.
Other sources in the article tiptoe through their interviews, cautiously hedging with evasive statements like this police officer’s: “‘It is very difficult to say that begging is organized,’ says Stockholm Police Peter Enell.” The article also makes short shrift of the statements by “a police officer with roots in Romania.” To me, the Metro article is laughable. Have a look. Or don’t waste your time.
To find out more about Romanian beggars, Bob Arno and I went investigating in Romania.
We met with a highly experienced police officer and another official in the city of Constanta, neither of whom would like to be named. Both told us that Romanians who beg outside of Romania are definitely organized. (I did not ask about beggars inside Romania.)
I asked if poor villagers sought out begging gang-leaders for assistance, or if villagers were recruited by the gangsters. They are recruited, I was assured. They are desperately poor, and they are Roma. On their own, they could not afford foreign travel. They require the assistance of leaders (bosses, aka gangsters) who organize their transportation. Of course, these bosses must be repaid.
The official pointed out a number of Roma men drinking on the sidewalks. They are robbers, he said.
The police officer said that people are still maimed for the purpose of begging. I did not get clarification, but I take this to mean that it is children who are maimed. The officer described a horrendous practice, in which adults push a child into slow-moving traffic. When the child is hit and injured, the adults demand cash on the spot from the driver in order to not involve the police.
It’s hard to believe that this barbaric savagery really happens. Yet, the officer told us that this exact atrocity had occurred only two days before our meeting, right in the center of town, in front of Tomis Mall (near where we found our pickpockets the next day). I can’t get the nightmarish image out of my head.
I must presume that the adults were not the parents of the child victim. Who is the child, then? Stolen? Purchased? Rented? I also presume that the child, with its unpredictable injuries, is intended to become a compelling beggar who will attract sympathy and more cash with its twisted limbs and scarred skin.
This anachronism is difficult to grasp in modern, civilized society. It’s impossible to imagine the desperation and cold-bloodedness that leads to such an industry.
(It brings to mind the 1989 novel Geek Love, by Katherine Dunn, in which a circus family man concocts chemical cocktails for his pregnant wife, thereby creating his own deformed children for his own lucrative freak show. However, those children are loved. Great book!)
Roma in Romania
Bob and I spoke with a gypsy family that happened to walk past us in Constanta, Romania. Our translator begged us not to, insisting that it would bring trouble and they’d demand money. He said they wouldn’t speak much Romanian and he didn’t speak any Romany. Bob persisted, and the family sat down in a nearby park, amenable and unperturbed.
They were clearly penniless. The mother’s clothes were black with muck and she carried a grubby blanket. The children, eight and eleven years old, were bright and alert. They answered Bob’s questions with the same trepidation any shy children would, glancing at their mother, who smiled back and nodded. The children attended school. The mother had not.
I was enchanted by the little girl, whose scarred and dirty face was beaming one moment, serious the next. Her radiant smile baring two chipped front teeth hinted of a tough life. Her rubber sandals were cracked, broken, and dirty. Her feet were caked with grime, her toenails chipped and encrusted. She wants to be a doctor.
The mother has five children: 3, 8, 11, 15, and 20. They live in a house where they pay a small rent. The children’s father is very ill, she told us. He was hit in the head recently. But she doesn’t drink or smoke, she emphasized, as if to counter an unsaid accusation. Also, her brother has been arrested and is in jail for two years. She didn’t elaborate, but added that she’s not afraid of police. She’s sad that she doesn’t have her own house—that’s her dream. To support her family, she collects plastic bottles.
“You ask hard questions,” our translator said, “very personal.”
Now Bob beat around a bush. Without asking directly, he tried to find out if the family had been approached by human traffickers or gangsters offering them a better life. He spoke directly to the children.
Our translator was not familiar with our peculiar area of interest and had no idea what we were getting at—which is just the way we wanted it. No interfering, no answering on behalf of the family or spinning their replies. It was interesting to observe his change in attitude. He softened toward the children, he was charmed by them, and impressed by the mother’s candid and sincere statements.
When Bob invited the mother to ask him questions, she had none. She simply smiled and said “I’m glad that you asked us all these questions and pleased that you are interested in our life.”
The family did not ask us for money, though we gave them some at the end. The children handled the bills reverently, then handed them to their mother. The woman was surprised and grateful.
Criminal Romanian begging rings
I have not seen any children (Roma or otherwise) begging in Sweden. I’m sure it wouldn’t be tolerated. However, Romanian children beggars and pickpockets are plentiful in England, Italy, Spain, France, and probably additional European countries, but those I have listed I have personal experience with.
Here’s a 2-minute BBC clip on Romanian child-beggars, human trafficking, begging-ring bosses, and new riches in poor Romanian villages.
Pickpocket partners Tony and Mario as they steal Bob Arno’s wallet
So, we’re standing at a bar near the train station, drinking espresso with pickpockets in Naples (how we got here is described in Part One of this story) right after they stole our wallet. Bob attempts to describe his profession. In a combination of French, English, and a little Italian, he tries to explain that he’s an entertainer, a performer, a stage pickpocket—which leads to…
A Misunderstanding and a Proposition
“First let me explain,” Bob said, “I work in casinos. I do big operations. I also do theaters. I am an artiste.” He looked around for someone wearing a watch. “Let me show you.”
Bob reached a long arm out to a newcomer in the bar and lifted his watch, his customary proof of comradeship.
“Oh, bravo!” Mario and Tony laughed. “He took the bus driver’s watch! Good job, well done.” The driver got his watch back and faded into the background. Is it logical, or odd, that pickpockets and bus drivers hang out at the same bar?
Stealing credit cards
“Me, I steal credit cards,” said Mario. “Visa—wait, wait, listen to this! You speak all these languages. If you work with me we’ll make so much money. I know all the cities. Florence, Venice, Viareggio…. We can work in Rome, Naples…”
Mario clearly did not capish Bob’s explanation about casinos, theaters, and artiste.
“But there’s no money in Naples!” Bob scoffed.
“No, no, here is good! Here I steal credit cards. Then I go to a shop and buy Rolexes. Rolex! You understand? Then I sell them, get money, and I share with my friends.”
Mario was convinced that Bob worked at casinos and theaters as a thief—a real artiste. It was only later that we realized the ambiguity of Bob’s earnest attempt at a job description. Unintentionally reinforcing the error, Bob laughed, bumped into Mario, and lifted the wallet from Mario’s back pocket.
Bob Arno boards a crowded tram in Naples, Italy
“Oh, I see what you do! Multi-bravo!” Mario said, and in Neapolitan explained to the bartender what had happened. “He took my wallet, he’s pretty smart! We came in here to have coffee together.” Mario didn’t mention the other part, that he’d taken Bob’s wallet first. But the bartender probably knew that.
“I have some friends at shops who help with these things. We’d make a good team, you and me. If you work with me, I can give you each a thousand dollars a day!” Yes, each! “Have you been to Ischia? To Capri?”
Mario’s cellphone rang. “Bueno. I’m by the Vesuviana. Okay, I’m coming over there. Ciao.”
Mario and Tony spoke to each other for a moment in Neapolitan, trying to figure out why Bob does this. He does it as a hobby, they concluded, just for fun.
“Madam, you want to try?” Tony offered me a taste of his almond milk, which looked intriguing but, was I going to drink from a stranger’s glass? A known thief? Bob and I were concurrently on the trail of the “yellow bomb,” in which patient thieves in Turkey spike drinks with Nembitol or benzodiazepine, then rob the knocked-out victim.
“No, grazie.” Looking at Tony, I pointed to the t-shirt he had draped over his shoulder satchel. I pointed to the t-shirt and smiled, tapped my head like “I know,” then waggled my finger and shook my head. The international pantomime worked, and Tony laughed. “No good,” he agreed, and stuffed the shirt into the satchel. I hadn’t noticed the hanging shirt when we were on the tram together but, if I had, it would have signaled “pickpocket” in a big way.
“Tomorrow I go to my family,” Mario said. “My wife is in Calabria with the children. I am driving to Calabria this evening to be with them, and I’m coming back tomorrow.”
I tried to picture this bus-working wallet-thief heading off to a seaside vacation.
“Here is my mobile phone number,” Mario said, handing Bob a piece of paper. “Call me. Any day is good.”
“But we’re leaving Napoli,” Bob began.
Mario interrupted. “Listen to me properly. The 18th and 19th of this month I will be in Florence. Florence is very, very good. I know everything about it. I can find out right away if the credit cards are good or not. And you would be a perfect partner because you speak French, English—”
“And I speak German as well,” Bob said. Wait—was he buying into this?
“So you come with your wife and we’re going to take credit cards only for Rolex. We’ll work on the train that goes from Florence to Monaco to Paris.” Mario made a stealthy swiping motion. “There’s a lot of good stuff we can do together.”
“That’s difficult for me.”
A typical coffee bar in Naples
“Listen. I get on the train that goes to these places, Vienna, Florence, Monaco, Paris. I go all day long and I take only credit cards. We make seven- to ten-thousand euros in one day. If you want, tomorrow, call me.”
Omigod. That’s nine- to thirteen-thousand dollars. Now I pictured Mario roaring down the highway in a Ferrari, adoring family eagerly awaiting the hard-working dad at their private summer villa.
“I can’t call you tomorrow, but maybe the day after. We’ll be in Venice for three days.”
“You work in Venice?” Mario looked surprised. “Okay, but you pay attention. Be careful there.”
“Yes, I know,” Bob said. By now it was too much to explain.
“If you do it properly, this is a fabulous job. Especially in Venice.”
“But there’s a vigilante group there.”
“I know, I’ve been there for Carnivale. I know the place.”
We said our good-byes and thanked Mario for the coffee.
“This is Napoli! You are my guest,” he said. Right, the same guest he’d tried to rip off half an hour ago. We ambled back to the buses, the four of us, splitting to opposite ends of the waiting passengers.
Bob and I, a bit stunned, wanted to get on the first bus that came along. As one pulled up and we moved toward the door, Mario shouted from thirty yards away: not that one, next one. Then he and Tony hopped on another and, presumably, went back to work.
Over coffee we had chided and joked with these high-end pickpockets, conversing easily in French. Having accidentally established ourselves as professional colleagues, we rode the misconception to our advantage, encouraging Mario to tell us about his world. As Mario spoke, I recorded him with a visible, hip-held video camera, which I tossed around casually. I was worried about being caught with the camera running. Bob and I were jolly and friendly, belying our nerves and disapproval. Tony was reserved, possibly due to his lack of French. Mario was enthusiastic and embracing, but was he feigning? We thought not.
Naples has a history steeped in crime and a people sincerely warm and jovial. It just might be the thievery capital of the world. I’m not sure, though; there are so many contenders. Myth and history tell us that it’s is the birthplace of pizza, but today this gritty, passionate, mob-infested city is better known for its pickpocketing. Who’s involved? Who lives in the underworld? Who’s on the fringes? It’s impossible for an outsider to know.
“Do you have any books on the Camorra crime family?” Bob asked later in a book shop.
“Camorra! The Camorra is a fantasy,” the shop owner replied dismissively. He was smiling though. In Naples, one only whispers about the Camorra.
Tony laughs nervously on the tram when asked to return Bob’s stolen wallet.
Coffee with Thieves
An August Sunday in Naples. Holiday time for all of Europe and most shops were shut. We bought bus tickets at a kiosk with our last coins, dodged the wild traffic, and crossed to the narrow center strip to wait for a crowded bus. I carried a small video camera in my hands and wore a fanny pack containing my other camera. Bob had a hidden camera, its guts stowed in a shoulder-bag he wore across his chest.
A number one bus arrived, jammed. I didn’t think we’d be able to get on. The doors jerked open and a few passengers tumbled out like crickets escaping from a child’s jar. Bob and I shuffled forward with the mob as the people onboard compacted like empties. We would never voluntarily join such a scene were it not for the call of research. This was highly unpleasant; beyond funny.
“No way. Let’s wait for another,” I said to Bob.
Tony the pickpocket would rather stay on the bus than go for coffee with his victim.
Two clean-cut middle-aged men who’d gotten off the bus were now behind us, corralling the doubtful like sheepdogs. Somehow, with their encouragement, we all got on, filling spaces we hadn’t known existed. The good samaritans kept us from bursting off the bus in the pressure while one yelled “chiude a porta, chiude a porta,” close the door!
My chest was pressed against a vertical pole. A wiry man in front of me had his back to the same pole. Glancing down, I saw his hand behind his back, blindly trying to make sense of the zipper tabs on my fanny pack, which I’d paperclipped together. I watched, half amused, half outraged at his audaciousness.
Pickpockets in Naples, Italy
We’d already made half a dozen or so tram trips that morning and had been pickpocketed on most of them. We hadn’t yet seen the same thieves twice. By now it seemed a certainty: riding a crowded bus or tram in Naples meant intimacy with a thief. Well, let me qualify that to specify buses and trams on lines that tourists might travel; specifically those stopping at the ship and ferry terminal, the archeological museum, and the train stations. Looking at the protective behavior of local passengers, bus-bandits seemed to be an accepted fact of life, as if there’s one in every crowd.
The disembodied hand couldn’t solve the puzzle in its fingertips. It dropped, or crawled away of its own accord. No success, no accusation.
Bob suddenly reached for my camera and held it high above the compressed mob, pointing down.
Pickpocket Mario, Tony’s partner, convinces Tony to go with us for coffee.
“Give back the wallet,” he said quietly. “There’s no money in it.”
“Okay, okay,” said one of the good samaritans. He handed it back with a sheepish grin below ultra-cool wraparound reflective sunglasses. In the video, you can see him lower the wallet to his thigh and check its contents.
“Come talk to us,” Bob said in French as the doors popped open. “Just talk—and coffee.”
“Café? Café?” He raised an invisible little cup to his lips, pinkie outstretched. “Okay.” But when the doors opened there was a cat-and-mouse game as we all four hopped off and on the bus with opposing motives. They were trying to ditch us. Finally Bob and I were on the ground with one of the pair while the other hung in the doorway of the bus, reluctant. “C’mon,” we all yelled to the last guy, and he finally joined us.
The men led us into a bar across the street and as we entered, I realized we had no money with us. Horrified, I pulled the last note from my pocket, not even enough for an inexpensive Italian espresso.
“No problem, you are my guests,” said the Italian who spoke French, with the hospitality of a Neapolitan. He ushered us in with the same warmth and efficiency he’d used to herd us onto the bus. He ordered three coffees, four glasses of water, and one almond milk.
“Bambi and Bob,” we introduced ourselves.
Mario, a high-end pickpocket who steals credit cards on trains to Florence, Paris, Monte Carlo.
“Mario,” said the one who spoke French. He studied us quizzically, as if he’d never been invited for coffee by a man whose wallet he’d just swiped.
“Tony,” said the reluctant other, and we all shook hands.
Mario was trim, 50ish, with smooth skin, curly salt-and-pepper hair, and a receding hairline. He wore a crisp white t-shirt tucked into blue shorts secured with a leather belt. With a watch, gold ring, cellphone, and snazzy shades, this was no lowlife, drugged-up desperado. Mario looked respectable, like anybody’s brother.
Tony was a little rounder, and clearly the junior partner. He squinted under a blue baseball cap, and—did you ever want to know where a pickpocket keeps his wallet?—in the pocket of his blue button-down shirt. It was Tony who’d first tried to take Bob’s wallet on the bus, but Mario who succeeded and slipped it to Tony.
Unlike most of the other cities we’ve visited, pickpockets in Naples are homegrown. They’re not immigrants, handy to take the rap, or despised illegals doing what they can for their very survival. These are Neapolitans practicing an age-old profession without, as far as we can tell, a shred of shame.
Bob Arno, a security consultant [as well as a comedy stage pickpocket], is the world’s most prominent pickpocket. Speaking to 02B, Arno lifts the lid on the Barcelona street crime scene. According to him, out of a thousand cruise-goers disembarking in Barcelona on any given day, five will be stripped of their belongings.
By Ignasi Jorro in Barcelona, 23/02/2014
Not many former pickpockets pride themselves on having been featured on the frontpage of Time. Bob Arno is one of them. He is often described as “the world’s most famous pickpocket” and praise pours in for his “unrivalled skills”. Bob Arno has snatched his way into the Wall Street Journal, CNN, and New York Times. National Geographic handpicked him for the acclaimed documentary Pickpocket King.
Now a security consultant, Bob Arno has a conference-packed agenda, giving 25 lectures a year on average. The pickpocket-turned-pundit works closely with tourist firms and runs a successful blog on worldwide crime.
02B- When was the last time you visited Barcelona?
Bob Arno- We visit Barcelona every summer, sometimes for a week or so, or several times for a day or two between May and November. The reason for our frequent trips is that we work with various travel companies, like the cruise industry, which brings us to Barcelona.
Bob Arno on Barcelona street crime statistics
02B- How would you describe the “pickpocket scene” (if it can be called so) in that city?
BA- Extremely high, compared with per capita statistics of other tourist cities like Rome, Paris, Copenhagen, and Prague. These other cities also have high pickpocketing rates, but not as varied and blatant as in Barcelona
In my own surveys, I have found that of 1,000 tourists visiting from a cruise ship (for five to eight hours), three to five persons will experience a theft or an attempted theft. Numbers are much lower for the same 1,000 cruise passengers visiting Nice or Athens.
The good news is that lately numbers have come down as to cruise passengers—day visitors who do not stay over night. But young hotel guests, 18-30 years of age, often do not bother to report the theft of a wallet or mobile phone, skewing the numbers.
Bottom line: I would say that the average number of thefts (real losses versus failed attempts) have decreased from over 100 per day, to 50-100 per day.
02B- But, who robs in Barcelona?
BA- Categorizing pickpockets in Barcelona is a complex endeavor. Here is an incomplete list the many players:
• Local gypsy families, who might have arrived many years ago from Kosovo or other war-torn regions, either first or second generation. A decade ago these perpetrators were a serious nuisance in Barcelona and probably constituted over fifty percent of the action. It is far less today.
• North African pickpockets who reside in France (especially in Paris) and make brief trips to Barcelona to practice their trade
• South American pickpockets who reside legally or illegally in Barcelona who specialize in advanced pickpocketing techniques like “la mancha,” the pigeon-poop ploy
• Itinerant pickpockets from Romania. Men and women, often very skillful in their art. Within this group are the pickpockets who specialize in “Apple-picking,” or iPhone-grabbing.
• Occasional well-organized troupes from Poland, skillful and very experienced. They’re a small percentage of the pickpocketing population in Barcelona
You will notice that we have not yet listed any local residents. It appears that over ninety percent of pickpockets in Barcelona are from other parts of Europe (or the world).
02B- How would you describe the response by authorities, including police forces, etc?
BA- I have always wondered why tourism organizations and politicians never combined forces and tackled the crime reputation that Barcelona gradually gained. The city has a very poor reputation that lingers to this day.
02B- In that case, what would you advise them to do to tackle the issue?
BA- I believe with absolute confidence that the police divisions working the Barcelona street crime detail know exactly who the culprits are, and they could quite easily apprehend the majority, and either expel or lock them up.
But it’s not that easy. It’s the judicial system we’re talking about and the expense of sentences. For a start, I would have a long session with the police chiefs and their superiors about morale and attitude toward tourists reporting crime. I’d like to see more compassion from the officers, more detail-oriented report forms, more translators, and a system that measures behavior of police officers who come in contact with tourists. Also needed: an independent commission that looks at all facets of Barcelona street crime, and which then reports back to the political powers.
For example, a pickpocket (in Paris) who has one arrest record, can be apprehended and prosecuted if they behave as if they are going to to steal from a victim.
Lovely La Rambla, Barcelona
02B- Which would be the main techniques?
BA- Depending on the nationality of the perpetrator, the techniques vary.
• First and foremost, opportunity theft when a victim does not protect his belongings. For example, she places her handbag on the floor in a restaurant without realizing that the entire bag can be pulled away from below.
• Pickpockets sandwiching victims at door entrances in the metro during rush hours.
• Thieves working clubs and restaurants who especially target the elderly (who are gullible or less mobile), and also the youth (in their late teen years or early twenties) who are still trusting, not yet cynical, and easy to distract. These thieves also work at big club events and concerts.
• The classic “pigeon poop” smear. A gooey mess is applied onto the innocent victim and then, a minute later, the pickpocket approaches the victim and volunteers to help clean it off. In the process, the pickpocket can invade pockets while distracting with cleaning the spot. It is more prevalent in Barcelona than elsewhere.
• Luggage thieves. Tourists arrive at a hotel and unload their bags from a car, leaving a small backpack or laptop case unguarded. While the bags are unattended, thieves speed by on a scooter, snag the laptop case, and speed off.
• Shoulder-surfing, in which the thief watches the cash machine-user from a distance to learn his PIN. The target is then followed until the thief gets (or creates) an opportunity to steal the bank card.
02B- What differences, if any, has the pickpocket community in Barcelona with similar major capitals around the globe?
BA- Most of Barcelona’s pickpockets are opportunists; fewer are very skillful ones. It’s a volume operation at the lower end, because Barcelona is so packed with visitors seven months of the year.
02B- How has the recession affected the pickpocket scene?
BA- Not much. They may have to steal an extra wallet or two to get the money they need.
Pickpocketing is inherent of large crowds, and so is on the type of tourists who visit Barcelona -some gullible, some young. Since Barcelona is such a desirable destination, many visitors are new to travel and naive.
02B- What are your future projects as an expert in this field?
BA- Since my National Geographic film, Pickpocket King, was released two years ago, I am less effective infiltrating or establishing rapport with thieves. But I am able to work closely with many law enforcement agencies across Europe, training and discussing policies. It is my strong belief that the best way to reduce diversion theft is to educate the public and make them aware of the basic techniques of thievery. With a few basic precautionary rules we can reduce this Barcelona street crime by more than half.
They’s ony three kinda men I won’t play with: That’s a po’ man, a blind man, an a police-man!
Rod the Hop, my Las Vegas three-card-monte informer, died last month, aged 56. He was a card tosser whose demonstrations proved that drills teach skills for life. He set up in areas with less police presence, favoring the sidewalks outside large factories, especially on payday, “where there’s eight hundred people going to lunch and they have to walk by you,” he said.
“A real good spot is outside military bases, where you’ve got a lot of young, naïve kids with nothing much to do and a little bit of money to spend.
“The moves are easy. You can learn it in a day and be good in a week. It’s the presentation that’s important. You have to have unflinching audacity and unmitigated gall. I don’t get intimidated.”
I love the way Rod spoke.
He was renown as a “card mechanic,” which is a card manipulator, as entertainment and teaching, and/or cheating in card games. As a card mechanic, Rod the Hop worked both ends. He was loved by the worldwide magic community; and had four felony convictions for casino cheating.
He was also renown as a “slot mechanic,” which could mean slot machine repairman but, in Rod’s case, meant he was a convicted slot machine cheat. Just last year he had the honor of becoming person number 34 in Nevada’s Excluded Person List, aka “the Black Book.”
He told us he tore apart and studied slot machines in his apartment, so he had to use a friend’s place as his “official” address so his parole officers wouldn’t find them.
Travelers may encounter three-card monte games anywhere. Players are purposely given a glimpse of the target early in the scramble, a skillful slip is performed by the tosser, and players thereafter carefully track the wrong object with confidence.
I’ve called three-card monte a “game” but, like the three-shell game, they’re games of no chance: tricks and traps. You’ll see other players win and walk away, but they are, in fact, shills. You cannot win. If you win once, it’s at the tosser’s pleasure in hope you, or someone in his audience, will bet big.
Advice from a three-card monte expert
In the words of Rod the Hop
The object of three-card monte is to make money. Each person in the crew gets an equal end. Some days it’s good and—it’s a street game so obviously you can only make as much money as what a person has in their pocket. But if you make two or three hundred dollars apiece a day, then you’ve done what you set out to do. Most of it has to do with grift sense, and your con and your presentation. That’s more than the skill factor, I would say.
It’s just a hustle. I mean, you just do the best you can and you prey on tourists or suckers that don’t know they’re breathing air.
Rod the HopRod the Hop ropes suckers into three-card monte
What I look for in a sucker is, they’ve got money, number one. And that they’re a sucker. I don’t have a conscious thought pattern that goes through my mind when I see a sucker. I know a sucker when I see one. I just do. I’ve been doing it so long, I know a candy bar when I see one. That’s all there is to it.
But by the same token, I know someone that’s not a sucker, or might be a cop, or somebody that knows the game. I can just feel it. I just know a sucker when I see one and my crew does too. You know that when you pick a crew. I don’t go out and say, yeah, he looks like a pretty good thief and has a lot of grift sense, I’ll get him. The deciding factor whether you have a good crew or a bad crew is how much grift sense all your partners have. But most of the time you’re not going to hook up with someone that doesn’t have grift sense.
You’ll find the game in the back of buses, train stations, things like that. Very seldom do you see it in the streets, cause if it’s windy it’ll blow the cards open.
I used to go outside a factory. Believe it or not, all you have to do is set up a box and start throwing cards and people will just stop by to see what you’re doing. You don’t have to say anything. Then you start betting with the shills. And pretty soon people get to realize that it’s a betting game. I’ll keep throwing it, and my shills will be betting, and they’ll be winning and the sucker sees them winning, and so they want to bet. And I might even let the sucker win some if I see other suckers that might have more money.
So, the red card’s on the bottom of the two cards and the black card’s on top. When I throw the cards down, I’ll throw the top card instead of the bottom card, which is the red card. But first, just to get into the rhythm of it, I’ll do it for real. I’ll throw the red card on the bottom, and let them watch where it is, very slowly, and they’re watching and wondering where the red card is. And there’s no question where the red card is.
And they’ll want to bet, so I’ll say, well here, let me do it again. And then I’ll pick them up and they’ll say, oh gosh, I was right. I knew where the red card was. And then I’ll do it again, and now they’ll want to bet. When I don’t want them to win is when I’ll throw the top cards. And then obviously they’ll lose.
You would think that a normal person would think, wait a minute, I knew where the red card was. I bet on it and I lost. Why? Well you’d think a guy would just quit. But no, not suckers. Suckers go, ‘wait, this time I’m really going to watch him.’ And then they’ll bet more money, and it just goes on and on until they don’t have any more money. So I try to entice as many suckers as I can to bet on it. Then, when everybody’s out of money, I take the cards, stick them in my pocket, and walk away. And then we’ll go somewhere else.
I’m where there’s people. Where there’s people there’s money, and where there’s money there’s me. And that’s where you do con games. You can’t do it if there’s no customers. Where there’s people, there’s suckers, and where there’s suckers, there’s people like me.
The reason people try to beat this game is because of the skill of the operator. It’s my presentation. I say, ‘look, I want to show you something.’ First off, I say ‘this isn’t three-card monte.’ Because then you’re thinking, this is not three-card monte. I tell them that you win on the red and you lose on the black. Now watch. Here’s a red card. I’m just going to set it right there. Then here’s a black card and I want to set it right there, and just switch them. Now where’s the red card? Will you bet on something like that? Well sure you would, if you were a betting man. But if you’re not a betting man, you’re not going to do it.
And this is a cliché that everyone uses, that you can’t beat an honest man. Well, you can’t beat someone that’s not trying to win your money. You can remember that. As a hustler, and doing the three-card monte, I cannot get my money from someone that’s not trying to get my money first.
Rod the Hop throws three-card monte
This is a real old game, this three-card monte. I know it’s at least a hundred years old. It’s in a book a hundred years old, published in 1902. But each generation that’s never seen it before thinks they can beat it. There will always be suckers.
Look, three-card monte is a great little hustle in the street. And frankly, I don’t do it any more because there’s not enough money in it for me. It’s only as good as how much money a person has in their pocket at that time—right now. How many people walk around nowadays with eight hundred dollars in their pocket, or a thousand? Or even three hundred? You know what they got? They got about six dollars and fourteen credit cards. That’s what people have nowadays. They don’t carry around cash. The only people that carry cash nowadays are criminals.
The one good thing about three-card monte and the three-shell game and the short cons like that, is it’s a good training ground for con men, for grifters. It’s a prep school, if you will. Most people grow out of it.
If you’re a tourist and you see a three-card monte, don’t stop and look at it and think, well I know that he throws the top one sometimes and maybe sometimes he throws the bottom one, or whatever. I’m telling you right now. Do not play it. Cause it’s a guarantee, you cannot win. It’s simple as that. And that’s my advice. I can promise you, you cannot beat it. Just go on down the road when you see it.
Like Rod the Hop, Bob Arno, the famous pickpocket, is also known in and has deep knowledge of the worlds of magic and crime. Watching Rod work, Bob was impressed with his coolness, his social-engineering, his roping-in of “suckers.”
I was impressed with his patter. Here are a few of his lines, usually delivered in a rapid-fire drawl while his hands were flying and his mind was sizing up potential marks:
“This here ain’t no three card monte, this here’s the Mexican pitti-pat, where you win on the red and you lose on the black…
“Watch me now, I’m gonna race ’em and chase ’em, so watch where I place ’em…”
“If you gotta lotta nerve and you gotta lotta plenty, five’ll getcha ten and ten’ll getcha twenty…”
“I’ve played this game with Yankees and Southerners, Senators and Governors. Money on the card or no bet, where’s the red? If I can bluff you I can beat you. Come on bet five, bet ten! Ho down now, get your chicken dinner in the center, where’s the red?…”
[Thanks to Paul Chosse, who thought to put these lines in writing back in 2005.]
The Raven, twisted to my pleasure. Thanks, Edgar Allan Poe.
For all the entertainment bookers and speaker bureau agents who make our comedy shows and anti-theft keynotes possible:
They’re Ravin’
ONCE UPON a midnight dreary, agents pondered, late and leery, Over many a quaint and curious video that bored, While they nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As of people wildly clapping, clapping for a show adored. “‘Tis Bob Arno,” the agents uttered, “whom the audience adored— ‘Tis their ravin’. He has scored!”
AH, DISTINCTLY they remember many events throughout November And all the clients in September who saw the show and then were floored. Suddenly they knew tomorrow they’d book Bob Arno without sorrow, Book him as an evening star (though star’s a term they all abhorred). Ask Bob-the-maven in his haven: your fee and rider—can we afford? Quoth the maven, “Even more!”
“BAH HUMBUG,” Bob said winking “Wishes— best for the New Year, I implore, And to a prosperous year together, and a symbiotical rapport, Happy New Year, says Bob Arno, Quoth the ravers: “Give us more!”
On the set before filming this live segment for ABC News, Bob Arno stole a wallet from one of the camera operators. The producers asked him to do it.
Bob snuck away with the wallet, brandishing it to the other nearby staff who’d gaped as the theft occurred. They were unaware of Bob’s topic—theft and scams—or at least of his skills.
Almost simultaneously, a uniformed security guard blasted into the studio—the scene of the crime—having witnessed the thief on his monitor.
“He was ready to throw your criminal butt out of our studio,” laughed host Susan Casper.
