The crew films us in our room as we gear up for thiefhunting.
Thiefhunting, Day One. Fully half the day is spent rigging hidden cameras. I’m wearing a button camera attached to an awful button-down shirt that I force myself to wear for the cause. The camera is wired to a control pack and monitor tucked into the back of my skirt. Another wire runs into the shirt pocket where a tiny mic is attached. Another wire ends in a remote control that allows me to start and stop the camera.
The button looks like any other, but contains a camera and is wired to a recorder.
I’ve got another microphone clipped to my bra—another piece of clothing I wouldn’t have worn but for the need to keep lifting my shirt for the crew rigging me. This mic is wired to another box that is tucked beside the first one on my back. This pack is a transmitter, and gets very hot. My skirt is tight now with all the equipment loaded under it, and I feel like a third-world building, draped in external wiring.
The bulbous lens of our wide-angle camera is concealed within a piece of an earring sewn onto a small bag.
I’m carrying a purse—a little clutch bag—which contains another hidden camera. This one is a wide-angle that takes gorgeous, sharp video, especially at close range. Its bulbous lens, like a black marble, has been beautifully disguised by our crack camera pros. I put on my NABI cap (my private joke because NABI is the National Association of Bunco Investigators) add sunglasses, and I’m ready to go out and investigate some bunco.
A wide-angle camera lens is behind the shiny sticker.
Bob gets the same kind of button cam and mic set up. In addition, he wears a completely wireless camera built into a pair of sunglasses, that he can casually remove and keep shooting with in his hand or set on a table. Bob will also have a tiny wide-angle handheld video camera like mine. His has been carved into a paperback novel. You can’t see it at all—it’s brilliant. Our director of photography is a master. We’re told his shooting is gorgeous, too, but we haven’t seen it yet.
The book is carved out for the camera, and closes with magnets. It\’s a gorgeous piece of work.
Fully rigged, we make a plan for our thiefhunting. Bob and I will ride public transportation. Sound and camera crew will be nearby, not too close. Film director, associate producer, and our local “fixer” will all tag along, watching, but keeping their distance. We have a few assistants, too. We’re a big group. It will be difficult to coordinate our movements while acting as strangers to one another.
Bob Arno in the refectory before dressing for an interview.The stairs and tunnel we found to escape the locked refectory.Another unlit passageway to explore.
Six of us—locked into a small, sweltering room. We’d done interviews in the convent refectory all day, first Bob, then I. Some of the walls were swaddled with blankets, as was the floor. Bright lights had been burning and the room had heated steadily. It was past 8 p.m. by the time we finished and the crew began to break down equipment.
Someone had closed the iron door and we were now locked in.
This hotel, a former monastery originally carved into the mountain in the 16th century, is a warren of rock tunnels and staircases among public rooms and halls. The clean, newly plastered surfaces are a stark contrast against the ancient rough stone that is visible and usable by guests. With a flashlight, the number of nooks and crannies and almost-hidden accessways begging for exploration must be endless. Lucky for us, one of these stone backways led off a tiny nook in the side of the refectory. Up, down, and around a few corners, heads bent, and we came into the yellow light and fresh air of a tiled hall.
“They’ve bugged our room,” I postulated to Bob in the taxi from the airport. “I bet they hid video cameras inside.” That aspect of shooting a documentary hadn’t occurred to me.
Our hotel is a former monastery carved into a hillside. With an outrageous view, it overlooks the entire city we’ve come to infiltrate. It’s a pleasing dichotomy: after years of sweaty skulking lowdown among the gritty streets, we now look down on the calm innocence of colorful rooftops which belie the commotion of the city and its criminal activities.
We opened the door of our room to find its lovely decor largely hidden behind draped cloths, booms, electrical cords, and extra light fixtures. The room’s chandelier was wrapped in pink gel (colored cellophane used to alter theatrical lighting) and cloaked in black fabric studded with clothespins. The bedside sconces were half-covered with foil. The ambiance of the room was pretty much destroyed.
The crew followed us in for a few arrival shots and immediately dismantled much of the equipment before leaving us in privacy. As soon as the door closed and we were alone, I got up to sweep the place for hidden cameras. Is that one in the middle of the gilt scrollwork of the sconce in the dressing area? What about the handles of the closet door? Behind the translucent panel covering the electrical fuses?
Entering the bathroom I stopped dead in my tracks. The ceiling lights were gelled. In the bathroom! What shots do they need in the bathroom? Nobody’s talking. At this point, we still don’t know.
That was one of the first sentences directed to me upon landing. We did not collect our luggage because it didn’t arrive. As we came out of the airport, our film crew was waiting. We did not make the expected dramatic appearance pushing a mountain of aluminum cases on two trolleys. It was just us, dragging our carry-on.
The soundman needed to mic me in the airport lobby. With exquisite courtesy in his accented English, he inquired about my undergarments. He needed a sturdy mount for the mic.
It took two hours to rig our taxi with cameras and lights. You think a documentary is just a camera following the action, but the action must be lit and wired for sound.
Light panels are mounted on the taxi ceiling and backseat windows. White reflecting fabric helps brighten the scene. It’s dark before we get moving.
The sound and camera crew crawled around in the taxi while we waited beside it at the airport. Meanwhile, our film director hinted of some sort of surprise to be found inside our hotel room. The room and hotel are gorgeous, we were promised. But whatever it was that we’d find in the room was left intentionally ambiguous.
There’s a lot about this project that’s ambiguous, or at least unknown. We know what we’re looking for and we know what resources and how much time we have for the search. But we don’t know what we’ll find. We’re meddling in a criminal subculture and can’t predict the reaction we’ll elicit from the thieves. And what about their bosses? If we’re poking into organized crime—and we believe we are—will the bosses feel threatened? Will they be angered? Or will they just smirk and laugh at us?
Time to make an announcement. Our long-dreamed of, long-worked for project has become reality. Bob and I are making a documentary about pickpockets. The shoot starts now! We have an incredible team, and backing that is the fantasy of any serious documentary-maker. And we have a film director whose passion and persistence has been the engine of our project for more than four years now.
Bob and I have been on our feet countless, endless days, for the past seventeen years in pursuit of pickpockets. We find, follow, and film the thieves, talk to them, and interview them. Dropping into the most fabulous locations of the world, we give short shrift to museums and monuments, and instead lurk among the tourists, preying on their prey. In the name of research, we people-watch. We’ve slowly acquired better and better video equipment, and a massive archive of crime footage. Time to do something with it.
We’re on location now in a European city we chose for the main filming of our documentary. While I can’t reveal everything, I intend to share the excitement, successes, and surprises of our journey as we dive ever deeper into the world of pickpockets. I don’t mean to be coy if I only hint of tantalizing details; certain aspects are contractually unmentionable for now.
I intended to post our progress every day, but our only internet point, in the hotel lobby, has gone down. There is nothing else nearby. We have several new local modem sticks—none work.
With a firm grip on the patient’s big toe, the hospital orderly entered the police inspector’s office. He carried the full weight of the patient’s plastered leg, which extended from the wheelchair without any other support. As he was pushed from behind and pulled by the toe, the patient hunched awkwardly in the rusty iron wheelchair. A male nurse had the ancient chair tipped precariously back, which thrust the broken leg to a painful height.
As he was wheeled in, the patient gripped the armrest of the chair with one hand and clutched his broken ribs with the other. A procession of plainclothes police and hospital staff followed. The patient was a pickpocket, brutally beaten by his most recent victim.
Mumbai Police Inspector Ashok Desai had not required much prodding to produce a pickpocket. He sat behind the desk in his lilac-colored office at Victoria Terminus and chatted amiably with us, shoes and socks off, cap off, smooth bald head reflecting the slow revolutions of a ceiling fan. Curiously eager to cooperate, he buzzed his peon and ordered him in Hindi when we asked to interview a thief. Shortly thereafter, his office doors were thrown open and the broken criminal wheeled in.
“Now let me explain something,” Bob said, leaning forward. “If he lies to me, I will know. I want only the truth.”
Without waiting for translation, the pickpocket replied in Hindi. “I speak only the truth to you,” he said, Inspector Desai translating. “I swear to you.” He raised his open right hand and placed it stiffly against his nose and forehead, thumbtip to nosetip, like a vertical salute.
Bob Arno shows pickpocket video to VT Police
Before the battered thief was brought in, the Inspector wanted to be certain that he wouldn’t be glorified in the press, nor made fun of by us. The man had received the beating he deserved, Desai said. His huge curled mustache held the shadow of a smile. While we waited, he dictated a memo to an assistant and sent another running for masala chai, spiced milky tea. Pigeon feathers swirled on the floor in a mini whirlwind.
Rahul was wheeled in and parked beside Bob. A posse of police and medical staff stood behind his rusty throne like male ladies-in-waiting. After promising truth, Rahul looked back and forth between Bob and the Inspector with alert eyes, and answered without hesitation.
He steals only on trains at the passengers’ moments of boarding or alighting, he explained. Never on buses. His only victims are wealthy businessmen, easily identifiable by the size of their bellies and grooming of their mustaches. He tapped his own thin mustache and sunken belly, indicating the local signifiers of affluence. All the police recognize Rahul and his gang. Therefore, they usually commit their thefts a station or two away from Central Station. He was caught this time because he’d been drinking a little and his reflexes were slow. He was sloppy. It was a bad mistake. He pressed his broken ribs and grimaced.
Rahul works with a sliver of razor blade, which he hides in his mouth between cheek and lower gum. Using a broken match stick, he demonstrated how quickly he can manipulate the blade. With it, he slices open the satchels of affluent businessmen on trains while a partner holds a newspaper or canvas bag at the chest or neck of the victim, preventing his seeing.
“Show me,” Bob said, coming around Rahul and squatting beside him. Rahul was handed a newspaper and then demonstrated how quickly he could open a bag beneath the shield of the paper.
This is done while boarding or exiting trains so crowded that people can barely turn their heads, Rahul and the Inspector explained.
“Do you ever cut pockets with the blade?” Bob asked.
“No, only bags. But I know others who cut pockets. Two brothers, they always work together.”
“I want to talk to them. Where can I find them?” Desai asked.
“I don’t know,” Rahul said. He seemed afraid for a moment.
“Last question,” Bob said. “What will you do when you’re fifty?”
A Mumbai taxi
“I have a taxi medallion and badge. If I get the chance, I would like to ply the taxi on the road.” He paused. “But I do not think I will get the chance.”
It’s possible that Rahul works under an Indian mafia. Neither he nor the inspector suggested this, but other Indians who analyzed portions of this interview on video thought it was likely.
“Where there is big money there is mafia,” an Indian working in the security business told me. “Your pickpocket, he was afraid to talk about other thieves he knows. He didn’t want to tell the police inspector. And as to driving a taxi, probably the mafia will never let him quit the steal business. Your pickpocket will continue his work on the trains, I believe.”
Bob Arno here, on our recent visit to Iran. The country has been in the news lately regarding the arrests of 30 persons accused of a U.S.-backed cyber war. We passed through last week, while also visiting Oman, Kuwait, Bahrain, and India. This is not an in-depth analysis about the stability of the present government in Iran or what lies in the future regarding its precarious relationship with Europe, Israel, and the U.S.; simply some observations from a short visit. [Way below!]
I first visited Iran in the mid-sixties as a young entertainer, performing in a shabby nightclub in Tehran. The booking was for two months and quite typical of the kind of engagements I was getting all over the middle East in those years, in Beirut, Cairo, Dar Es Salaam, and Teheran. These clubs were basically a front to sell alcohol and what were then called “consummation girls.” Even today, Lebanon advertises for girls to work as dancers and consummation hostesses in clubs across Lebanon.
The nightclub shows were simply an excuse for the management to have a license and to be allowed to stay open in a Shari’ah society. These were tough audiences, not especially interested in a young Swedish comedy performer, but the novelty of pickpocketing was intriguing and different from the usual fare of belly dancers, jugglers, dance teams, and singers. My show at the time was rough around the corners and I hadn’t yet acquired the confidence or slickness which later became my trademark and is essential to being a good pickpocket. With a few simple pickpocketing stunts I was able to bamboozle this nearly-ninety-percent male crowd and hold their attention.
Halfway through my booking, the club management informed me that I had been invited to the palace to do a private show for the Shah. No, there was not going to be any extra fee; this was an invitation to entertain the royalty (as if I were a court jester), and I should consider myself honored that his highness the Reza Shah had requested my services.
My manager at the time was a British show-business entrepreneur—Lord Anthony Moynihan. Moynihan was married to his second wife (he would eventually be married five times), a Pakistani belly dancer called Princess Amina. A diva of considerable proportion and a nightclub attraction with great popularity throughout the Middle East, she always guaranteed large audiences. Lord Moynihan was in Teheran, together with Princess Amina, who was performing in the same venue as myself. There have been many colorful stories written about Princess Amina. The most accurate one was written in 2002 in The Daily Times (of Pakistan) by Kaleem Omar.
Lord Moynihan was instrumental in structuring my career and coordinating my early bookings from the mid- to late sixties, culminating in several gigs at the London Playboy Club run by the infamous Victor Lownes. We parted ways in early 1970, when the Lord became one of the most wanted men in the UK for financial fraud. I, too, had long suspected Moynihan of “unusual” business practices, but I was never able to nail him with evidence, despite our close association. I finally got hip to his shenanigans when Victor Lownes told me that Moynihan could no longer enter the club premises, because he had been caught operating a cheating syndicate, pushing roulette chips over the table lines, with sophisticated diversion techniques involving beautiful girls leaning and shading the line of sight of the dealers. I don’t know who learned most from whom during our eight-year relationship. But that’s another story. And another post.
The Lord, Princess Amina, and I were brought to the Palace in downtown Teheran and invited to dinner. No, not with the Shah and Farah Diba, but at a separate table in a different room. Most memorable were the table settings, the porcelain, and the gold utensils. For a young impressionable Swede this was certainly a first.
A security adviser soon told me to enter the sitting room and do my show. Gathered on a large sofa were the Shah, Princess Farah Diba, King Hussein of Jordan, and his young wife, Queen Noor. But there were parameters. I was firmly instructed not to touch the Shah during my performance. How does one do pickpocketing if he’s not allowed to touch his subjects? Further on, the Shah wore a gold Rolex Presidential watch—at the time one of the most expensive watches in the world, and certainly not something that I would experiment with. The only thieves who are able to lift Rolexes are in Naples, Italy (then and now), and their technique is most certainly not appropriate for light dinner entertainment in a royal setting. I had to resign myself to some other table magic routines, which were my usual fallback material when all else failed. My evening with the royal rulers in the Middle East was not a success to boast about. I never ripped off the Shah of Persia. Well, not the official way.
And now we go forward, to the present day. I haven’t been back to Iran since the sixties. Today, hopefully, I am more astute at reading security trends and the political winds. I especially wanted to talk to ordinary young people about their feelings on Iran now and how they see their future in relation to Europe and the rest of the world. I expected to see parallels with Turkey, where the dialog about joining the European Union is intense, if not conclusive. Our first destination was Bandar Abbas, a city of around 370,000.
Driving through the center of the town I noticed an abundance of graffiti, or recently overpainted graffiti. I was curious about whether the slogans or messages were political, and for or against the government. I got the most amazing replies to my questions—mostly outrageous explanations, with no grounding in reality. For example: people are allowed to advertise for a month on the walls and then the municipalities paint over the walls to allow for new messages.
Or, an even better explanation: young people are encouraged to express themselves artistically on the walls, and then they are repainted for new creative expressions. I could not find a single person who would insinuate or say that these were angry statements from the opposition which had been removed or painted over by the authorities. End of that story.Â
But I did find several people in their mid- or late twenties who proclaimed that most of the young people hated the present regime, that they were robbed of their election, and that nobody cares or pays any attention to Mahmoud Ahmadinejad. True, these were people who spoke English and had a good education. Had I been out in the countryside and had a similar conversation with farmers, I might have gotten an entirely different story.
The most significant reflection I can pass along is how friendly everyone was, regardless of where we walked. We were obviously a novelty to the people, but there was absolutely no anti-American mood expressed or observed anywhere. People were genuinely friendly and open, and wanted to communicate and interact. There are many countries around the world where we Americans are sneered at, or receive a cold reception; Iran, at present is not one of them. That is not to say that the regime is not presently jockeying and manipulating world opinion. They are facing an embargo or trade sanctions in the UN, and perceptions of European visitors, tourists, or business travelers can shape the dialog.
We did notice civilian dressed security personnel following us from time to time, when we traveled and stayed with a group of other Americans, but mostly we were on our own and without escort, supervision, or secret surveillance. We spotted a few young clumsy pickpockets on the perimeter of a large crowd that had gathered around a troupe of shady “three card monte” men, operating just like they do in the rest of the world—spotters, shills, and a main operator. And, as usual, they scattered when a motorcycle with two cops approached.
In the souks we saw many social subgroups in their traditional garb. One should certainly not point a camera at these conservative women without permission. Some gave us the okay; others declined. Yet others struck unbidden poses and begged to be in our photos.
Iran is clearly at a turning point this year. It will be interesting to see the developments the next six months. Because I recently wrote about the Mahmoud Al Mabhouh killing in Dubai, I will conclude this post with an observation about Dubai, and its latest chess move: barring entry to any person with an Israeli passport. There has been a lot of speculation about whether this presumed Israeli operation was sloppy, arrogant, or ill-informed of the quality of the surveillance equipment. Senior analysts in the intelligence communities have expressed conclusions that they must have underestimated the advanced surveillance technology in Dubai. Security guru Bruce Schneier opened his recent Crypto-Gram newsletter with an interesting summarization.
I recently spoke with Samuel Lewis, former Ambassador to Israel for eight years during the Carter and Reagan years (and later director of the State Department’s Policy Planning Staff during the Clinton years). Ambassador Lewis has a deep understanding of the Iran-Israel conflict: he too thinks that the Israeli Mossad had underestimated the Dubai technology advances. That is, if the Mossad are the people behind the assassination. My own theory on this is that the Israelis wanted to send a clear message both to Dubai and its banking system, and to HAMAS. The software and the technology going into the camera surveillance systems must surely be well-known to the Israeli intelligence community. In weeks to come, we’ll hear more interesting revelations about the Dubai affair.
Psychology is an integral part of a good cannon’s skill-set. He must be able to read the mark. More than one good pickpocket has told us that the rush is better than a drug high (which many have the experience to compare), when he sinks his hand into a mark’s pocket and touches a wallet, even if there’s no actual extraction. Just being there—inside a complete stranger’s pocket—is a rush. Pickpockets often come up with nothing, for many reasons. The poke was lying sideways in the pocket. It was too thick. In a woman’s handbag, the zipper opening was not large enough to let the wallet slide out, The mark made a move sideways, or suddenly changed face expression (to anger or strain). Grift sense informs the pickpocket’s next move in the game.
Early this month, Germany’s RTL Television Network sent for Bambi and me for its program, Extra. Over the past six or seven years I’ve had several segments on RTL’s Extra, all with high ratings; which may explain why the network flew two people all the way from Las Vegas to do only a ten-minute spot in a one-hour news-program.
RTL Extra producer Burkhard Kress with pickpocket Bob Arno
This time the assignment was different and demanding. The producer, Burkhard Kress, wanted me to steal from the public at Munich’s enormous Oktoberfest, where more than eight million people congregate over a two week period. The goal was to illustrate why pickpockets love crowds, and that Oktoberfest is a strong magnet to international cannons.
During the festival, hundreds of international pickpockets descend on Munich and practice their trade, not just on the fairgrounds, but also on public transportation, in hotel lobbies, and everywhere tipsy revelers rally—pickpocket heaven for sneak thieves. Cannons who usually operate in St. Petersburg, Bucharest, Rome, Naples, Athens, Paris, Marseilles, Barcelona, Lima, and Santiago, to mention just a few cities with a high level of whiz mob activity, come to Munich for the festival with hope of making a big kill.
Bob Arno dips into a woman's purse.
My challenge was especially tough because I couldn’t operate in the same environments or locales as my criminal colleagues, and had to work with serious limitations and restrictions. First of all, there was a time issue. We had only two days for the project. That meant starting work immediately upon arrival in Munich (from Las Vegas), without being able to first scout the venues, the crowds, the hidden cameras, where the undercover cops were patrolling, and where the best spots were to extract the pokes without being caught by law enforcement.
And RTL wanted “money-shots”—all television programs seek these emotional moments. They’re what drive viewers and ratings. They make for tense television and, most important, they stop viewers from switching to other stations. It’s why programs like America’s Got Talent are actually scripted, dripping with confrontational emotion when participants are ejected from the show.
Bob Arno in lederhosen.
The television money-shot in pickpocketing is when the reporter asks the victim about safety, and how he or she perceives the threat of theft and cons. The questions are usually: “So how do you feel about pickpockets? Could one steal from you?” The answer, hopefully, will be a confident: “No way, I’m too aware, my stuff couldn’t be stolen.”
Packed into this two-day visit, we had scheduled camera shoots (me stealing from the crowd), interviews of me, my analysis of security at Oktoberfest, and lessons in theft-avoidance. We also needed time to transfer some of my crime footage that illustrates new pickpocket techniques relevant to Germany and its visitors and viewers. A project like this really needs five days.
We arrived at the hotel and changed into the working uniform, this time traditional lederhosen. We rigged cameras and wireless microphones, experimental wrist-rigs, and the usual button-cams. We also had to take into account the local laws, like what can be filmed with audio (privacy laws).
A pickpocket (in striped shirt) uses a coat to hide his work as he steals a wallet from a man boarding a bus.
Next step was a briefing with the film crew to make sure everyone understood the logistics of filming thievery. Cannons will always shield the hand going into a pocket or purse with a jacket, a bag hanging sideways over the chest, or something. This allows the thief to hide his entry into the victim’s pocket, purse, or fanny-pack and the world around won’t see the extraction. My challenge was to keep my theft hidden from the vic and his friends while enabling the camera crew to film it.
We review the day's footage while waiting for duck dinners in a beer-hall. Nearby men climb on a table and strip.
I work fast, and my hands often fly lightly all over my mark. Usually, Bambi is the only one who can anticipate the item I’m after and where to point the camera. She was thrown a camera and became one of the crew.
Most of the drinking and much of the partying at Oktoberfest takes place in the many enormous beer-halls on the grounds, huge tented restaurants which are each sponsored by a different company. RTL did not receive permission for me steal inside the tents, where the crowds were dense, but the police knew that I was working with the film team at the festival. Therefore, we had to be aware of surveillance cameras and how they were monitored. Were they actively watched by humans, or was it a system that simply records everything so that officers can go back and view footage in case of an incident?
I also wanted to avoid the inebriated. Partiers were putting away six or seven one-liter mugs of prime Oktoberfest beer. Stealing from a drunk does not make for great television in my opinion—among criminal street pickpockets this is ranked at the lowest level. It’s entry level thievery and gets no respect from the whiz mobs. They call this kind of lowlife a lush worker.
Bob Arno tells RTL reporter why pickpockets hang around ATMs. Man in green shirt is Bob's next victim.
I hung around a row of ATMs for a while to watch for a taschendieb or two on the lookout for good marks. A team of four caught my eye. I was itching to go up and introduce myself—talk shop. It usually takes me thirty seconds to determine in a conversation if they’re thieves or not. But there was a fly in the soup here. Oktoberfest management had hired undercover cops from Romania to look for Romanian pickpockets and these guys could have been them. My suspects spoke only Italian and one of them just a tad of English. Yes, we had fun talking, but I didn’t get the confirmation I hoped for.
One by one, a few good potential marks walked away from the ATM after cash withdrawals. I telegraphed to the film crew that I was ready to go into action and got an approving nod: “go for it.” I lifted a few wallets and we got superb money-shot reactions when we returned them. It was “in the can,” and everyone was happy.
'No way you could take my wallet,' the victim said before Bob dangled his wallet before him.
What made this spot so successful? First and foremost, I saw where the marks placed their leathers (slang for wallets) and how thick they were. I could immediately determine the print of the poke. Translation: the four corners of the wallet and where the top of it was in relation to the top of the pocket—how deep down it was. That’s significant information because it allows the me to pick a technique of extraction: what fingers to use and where to grip. Yes, there are different methods to extract a wallet.
In an ideal scenario you want to nip the top edge with your nails and stay still while the mark moves away, he simply walks away from his property. The vic’s own motion hides the sensation of the poke sliding out. An alternative, for a good cannon, is to create a small diversion when the leather is lifted. A light brush against the legs is enough, or perhaps a more demonstrative push by a female whiz mob partner (or a stall). Each extraction need a slightly different approach and technique. Is he in motion or standing still?, how tight is the crowd around him?, and so on. Each factor counts and on top of it all, the equation changes constantly depending on my read of the mark’s face. Pickpockets call this skill—reading their marks—grift sense.
A crowd gathered as Bob lifted one item after another from this man.
In the two days, I made several misses—as any cannon does. Yes, I had my hand in the purse or bag, but there was nothing significant to pull out. In one case, when I was about take an entire handbag from a woman sitting on a bench, I saw that she suddenly got uncomfortable with my presence. Another time a man’s wallet was too thick for me to remove smoothly. These are typical complications which all pickpockets experience.
A good cannon will seldom lift more than three or four pokes in a day due to the sheer tension involved. Some will target their marks carefully, knowing from the appearance of the mark that he or she is likely to have a generous interpretation of “pocket money,” and a high credit card limit. One wallet, when targeted like this, should translate to quite a few thousand dollars by maxing out credit cards. Identity theft is the next natural progression for a good pick. If the whiz mob is technically inclined, they garnered the PIN while the vic made a transaction at the ATM. Europe’s chip & pin cards make this harder to accomplish, but that’s another story.
We had a lot of fun in Munich and I was again able to test my slippery skills in real life scenarios. As a stage pickpocket, I find the level of tension much higher when stealing without the protection of the theater setting. Street thieves call it having heart; and that doesn’t mean having compassion for your vics. It’s the exact opposite: the ability to put your hand in a total stranger’s pocket and be emotionally unaffected by it—feeling cool under pressure. Having heart also means one must have lived at least for some time in the criminal world, and knows the consequences of being arrested and spending time in the box. Though I’ve never been arrested, I think I can still consider myself as having heart. Except, for me, it does mean having compassion for the victim.
Women wear dirndls: long or mini; racy or demure; traditional, sequined, or alt.
Called in to pickpocket goodies from the massive Munich Oktoberfest crowd, Bob and I, just back from Japan to do a show for Monsanto in Las Vegas, raced to catch the last two days of the bawdy Bavarian festival. (Tokyo, Vegas, Munich in five days. Thank goodness for business class.)
Bleary-eyed, we were surprised to find the RTL TV Extra crew at the airport, cameras rolling. They whisked us straight to the heart of the party for 8 million, pausing only to slip Bob into lederhosen. Most people there wore traditional costumes: men in lederhosen, women in dirndls.
Big big beers and Bavarian barf. Drinking starts 10am. Beers are a full liter. By noon, people are doubled over and hugging trees.
It was noon, and the revelers had been drinking since 10 a.m. Some stumbled along, supported by friends. Others sat on the ground, heads in hands. No wonder: beer is sold by the liter mug and the whole idea is to drink as much as possible. The gutters ran with pee and puke.
Make room for another beer: lederhosen: made for easy peeing.
Right away Bob and I noticed “suspects”—probably pickpockets, in our opinion—scanning the crowds. Time was short though; Bob was supposed to steal from sober partiers. No time for thiefhunting. We stood on a grassy slope among the sick and sleeping, the singing, the happy, the tired. A man lay sprawled face down at our feet, right arm extended clutching his cellphone like a torch, like a fallen statue.
“Let me have this one,” our producer said with a wink. He bent and slipped the phone from the man’s grip. Too easy. Unable to rouse the plastered guy, we finally stuffed the phone into his back pocket and considered it safer than it had been.
Bob and I surveyed the mob, looking for likely marks. We had a to-do list of items to steal; and we hoped for victims who’d be good for television. We didn’t want the type who’d punch Bob in the face if they caught on— granted, though, they’d be great for television.
The failed wrist-cam hinders Bob's movements and misses the steals no matter how it's mounted.
In preparation for this challenge, our special cameraman, Frank Jeroschinsky, built a fancy “wrist-cam,” a lipstick camera he strapped to Bob’s arm with a cord that ran up Bob’s sleeve and into a backpack, where the recording device was stashed. The device was meant to capture the steal as Bob’s hand entered a purse or pocket. We didn’t have the heart to tell Frank how many cameramen before him had rigged similar set-ups. Bob just ran through the tests and trials and Frank saw for himself the disappointing results.
Bob stole from this girl's father.
Interesting to watch the regimented Germans let loose. As we mingled, futilely trying to blend in, we saw heaps of humanity crumpled on the ground, and those attending to them. A policeman tried to rouse a man splayed on a sidewalk. A first aid team huddled around an unconscious body. Friends supported friends as best they could.
Roving red cross wheel the sick away on stretcher wagons with yellow vinyl tent covers for privacy, window in vinyl for light.
Before Oktoberfest was over, Munich police had arrested more than 80 pickpockets. They had come from many surrounding countries, as expected. A more inviting gathering for thieves cannot be imagined. Celebrants with traveling cash flooded in from all across Europe and beyond. Flocks of Russians had flown in. Grassy parking lots were lined with hundreds of buses from Italy, Czech Republic, Spain, and more.
Pissoir optional. I was told even women skip the loo queues and use a tree.
Expecting a flood of pickpockets from Romania, authorities had also imported a special team of Romanian police.
Poor guy lost his head. Simultaneaous puking & peeing.
What struck me among all the drunk and sick and out-of-control partiers was the overall peacefulness. In two long days I didn’t see a single fight, didn’t hear shouts, insults, or curses.
Jan, the sweet cameraman always in the right place, uh—'lost' his wallet during the shoot.Beer-garden veg-free dinner: crispy roast duck, pretzel w/ cheese & onions, beer too heavy for me to lift one-handed. No, couldn\'t finish it. Sample prices: beer, €8. hotel wifi, €17. Half a duck with nothing else, €25.Fish-on-a-stick. Steckerlfisch grill over fires in long rows.Bob Arno in lederhosen, pickpocketed the Oktoberfest crowd for German RTL TV 'Extra.'
RTL Television’s Extra segment was broadcast the evening of October 5 to a 27% audience share. 17% has been their maximum, so it’s considered a huge success. Although it’s not officially online, we expect to get a copy of the piece shortly. Perhaps we’ll upload it. If so, I’ll link it here.
David Avadon, a friend and associate of mine, died of a heart attack in a gym in Los Angeles. David was recently billed as The King of Pickpockets. Although he wasn’t a close friend, we had many long and interesting chats over the years. Our intense passion for the research of stage pickpocketing was equal both in seriousness and determination to find hidden truth and facts. But we were competitors and, as such, we were cautious of sharing information.
I first met David in 1990 when he used to visit the Bally/MGM showroom in Las Vegas where I was the featured attraction for three years in the Jubilee! show. He would always come with Ricki Dunn, another pickpocket entertainer (and good friend of mine). Ricki and David were close friends for over twenty years, and Ricki was later profiled extensively in David’s book Cutting Up Touches, probably the best book ever written about stage pickpocketing and the artists practicing the art.
For his book, David managed to track down obscure facts about the jealously and infighting among stage performers. The anecdotes come fast and furious; the guarded secrecy surrounding techniques were a dominant factor in all relationships among vaudeville pickpocket entertainers then, and pickpockets now.
I never saw David perform in a live show so I cannot comment on his skill, but I know that he was a warm and outgoing performer with a tremendous knowledge about this very narrow and secretive performance art. I’m quite certain that his library on the art is far more extensive than any other private collection anywhere today. David was not a criminologist, but a collector of performance memorabilia on pickpocketing. It will be interesting to see where this library eventually goes—hopefully to an institution where aspiring performers can have access.
The art of pickpocketing is a tightly protected art form and it’s darn impossible to get the real facts or true techniques revealed. Basically because stage pickpocketing (versus stealing in the streets) depends on the individual persona of the performer and how he adapts his mannerism and personality to the extraction techniques. It is a marriage of the two that fosters a dynamic pickpocket show. Other related artists, like magicians and jugglers, might succeed without projecting a personality, on sheer finger technique and practiced skill. Pickpocketing incorporates psychology, reading the body language of a victim, creating good diversion techniques, and of course timing during extraction. It also requires a strong sense of comedy, and to some extent quick verbal skills and improvisation. Without those combined ingredients the show will fall flat.
This is why there are few pickpocket entertainers today (or ever). It’s extremely hard to learn and turn into effective entertainment. David’s book mentions many of the deceased pickpocket entertainers of the past three or four decades. Few had much impact outside the country or city where they worked. The successful ones could be counted on one hand: Borra, Dominique, Vic Perry, and Giovanni.
Today, major production houses and television talent shows like Cirque du Soleil and America’s Got Talent attempt to incorporate the art of pickpocketing—without much success. Manufacturing this talent, from a producer’s point of view, is not easy. Cirque du Soleil tried by gathering all the known video tapes of successful performers and invited aspiring pickpocket talent to come to their workshop in Montreal to screen the routines of the masters with the intent of creating a pickpocket segment in their show. And when was the last time you saw a good pickpocket segment on a talent show, like America’s Got Talent? And yet, every season they send out requests to agents and managers for pickpocket entertainers. The art form has few practitioners.
David Avadon helped keep the spirit of this murky art form alive. His book and his research will live on. Cutting Up Touches was small in size but large in content. Goodbye, David. Let’s hope you meet your old pickpocket pals and mentors in the next waystation.
Other fine pickpocket performers:
Borra, Â April 26, 1921—October 11, 1998
Ricki Dunn, April 2, 1929—January 29, 1999
Chappy Brazil, Nov. 26, 1964—June 27, 1998
