Italy – Page 2 – Pickpocket Bob Arno

Coffee with pickpockets in Naples

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.

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.

“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,” 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.

Next: A Misunderstanding and a Proposition

Excerpt from Travel Advisory: How to Avoid Thefts, Cons, and Street Scams
Chapter Six: Public Transportation—Talk About Risky…

Overcharge scam or accidental mistake?

Overcharge Scam

“Do you take credit cards?”

“Si, signora,” the salesman replied.

“How much is this pepper grinder?”

“€12.90.”

So why was the credit card slip made out for 15.90 euros? Accident? Or was this a little scam the market man thought he could pull on an idiot tourist? On a hurried customer, one who might not examine the credit card slip.

This was in Rome’s bustling outdoor market in Campo de’ Fiori, at the large kitchenware stand right next to a man pressing pomegranate halves as fast as he could and selling €6 cups of juice to an endless line of customers.

When I called him on it, the salesman wordlessly handed me three euros in coins. Not sheepishly. Just wordlessly.

Like a pickpocket who silently drops the stolen wallet on the ground. Not me… there it is… no harm done, right?

I can’t say for sure that this was a systematic overcharge scam used—perhaps vengefully?—on customers who have the audacity to pay with a credit card. But I have my opinion…

What do you think?

credit card Italy Rome scam

Naples pickpocket Angelo sighted

Guest Post

Dear Bob Arno and Bambi Vincent,

I want to thank you for your information. Before I went to Naples I searched for info on street crime and pickpockets there and also saw your info and video.

As preparation I only had some cash on me in my front pocket and knew the tactics.

Naples pickpocket Angelo

Riding on the notorious R2 bus for a visit to Pompeii I recognised one guy (I think it was Angelo) [from Pickpocket King] and certainly knew that he had bad intentions even when he entered the bus in the front about eight meters from me.

He went out and in with some guys, looked me straight in my eyes and then went for my pockets. As I knew what his goal was I could move away from him while still noticing that they were checking my pockets.

The older Italians complemented me for my reaction and asked if I was robbed. I was not.

However, it was agressive that he went for me even though he must have known that I knew that he was up to this.

I have only experienced this agressive pickpocket behaviour in Naples and not in Rome, Barcelona, Madrid, Athens etc.

One thing that I don’t understand is that these guys can continue their pickpocket work. A ten year ban on public transport would do the job maybe? But I think there must be a bribe.

But most of all I would like to thank you for the information that made me enjoy my trip. I will not go back to Naples and prefer the other cities.

Best Regards,
[Name withheld by request]

Read how we first met Angelo in 2004.
Read about Angelo-the-family-celebrity in 2014.

Italy Naples pickpocket Thieves

Pickpockets on Rome Metro

Hunting Pickpockets on Rome Metro

As we rode the steep escalator to the depths of Rome’s Termini Station we marveled at the swirling, pushing, roiling crowd of passengers. Before we reached the bottom, we could see several uniformed officers on the platform. Bob groaned.

“Bad luck for us. There won’t be any pickpockets with the police around.”

It was nearly noon. We thought we’d have a quick look anyway, then surface for a lunch of Roman-fried artichokes and zucchini flowers. But as we were funneled off the escalator, we immediately recognized the abused-looking face of a pregnant pickpocket we’d filmed years earlier. Again, she was big with child. The woman, perhaps 20 years old now, swayed on her feet and smiled as she kidded with the police officers.

What was going on?

Had it not been for that familiar face, we wouldn’t have looked twice at a trendy teenager nearby. The girl wore cute, tight pants rolled up at the cuffs, a clingy, low-cut top, and the latest in designer eyeglasses. She wore a gaudy choker and makeup, her lips darkly outlined with pencil.

In no way did she fit our previous pickpocket profile. Her dark hair was short and straight, neatly cut at shoulder length, sticking out beneath a black baseball cap. Slung across her chest, she carried the latest style shoulder-bag, the body-hugging, wide-strapped leather pouch with extra cellphone/glasscase/coin compartments attached to the broad strap. Smart and sassy, she resembled not-at-all her dowdy, pregnant friend. The girl was suspect by association.

The two girls conversed together, and with the uniformed officers as well.

At first we assumed the girls had been arrested and were awaiting police escort to the station. How silly of us. After five or six minutes of chat, the girls and officers wandered from the bottom of the escalator to the train platform, which was momentarily quiet. Their joking and laughing continued, and there was even a little friendly physical contact initiated by one officer.

A new crowd soon built up on the platform, and our attention turned to a perfect suspect, a pudgy male. We watched his eyes, and the way they locked onto another passenger. He moved to his chosen one and stood close.

The train swooshed in and stopped abruptly. Its doors slid open and clotted streams of human beings gushed forth, flowing, somehow, into the mass of bodies waiting on the platform, coalescing into a solid, writhing, determined organism. The new being contracted, then broke into bits, dispersing like grains from a punctured sack of rice.

The pudgy male followed his mark onto the train, shuffling in tiny steps so close, so close. He wouldn’t allow anyone to separate them. Bob and I followed, intending to film him, but we were roughly shunted to the right by a last-second surge of passengers as the train doors tried to shut. There was no way we could filter our narrow bodies through the dense pack to get closer to Pudgy.

Pickpockets everywhere

Before we had time for disappointment, Bob turned to me.

“All around us,” he said under his breath.

Yes, four young men, on three sides of Bob and one behind me. They were eyeing each other. The tallest, in front of Bob, already had Bob’s wallet.

“Give it back.” Bob said, firmly but quietly. “Give me the wallet.”

No response. Four pairs of wild eyes now flicked everywhere but at each other, everywhere but at their victim.

“Give me the wallet.” Bob hardened his voice and stared at the tall one.

Plunk. The wallet hit the floor and the men stepped aside.

I picked it up as the train reached a station. Bob was still glaring at the four. He intended to follow them onto the platform.

The foursome got off and we were right behind them. But there, on the platform, was the pudgy male we’d followed earlier. We dropped the four and snuck up on Pudgy, who was now behind a crowd waiting to board while a stream of others disembarked.

Bob’s camera was still rolling.

Behind the waiting passengers, Pudgy did a slow lunge, reaching his hands as far forward as possible. Bob leaned dangerously against the train, straining to see, angling his camera. Pudgy stretched toward a man who shuffled slowly toward the train door. With both hands, he opened the Velcro flap, then put one hand right into the cargo pocket low on the man’s thigh, and came out with a wallet. He turned and rushed away down the platform, suddenly followed by a cluster of children—like the Pied Piper. We followed him to an escalator where a security guard, watching our pursuit, shouted “Kick him! Kick him!” over and over. Obviously, Pudgy was well-known in the area, and frustrated guards have little authority over crimes they do not witness.

Where were we? I gave Bob the recovered wallet and he replaced it in his fanny pack. We turned to look for a station name and there, standing in a just-arrived train, was the trendy teenager in the black cap.

We dashed on before the doors slammed shut. The train lurched and gathered speed. Squashed against the door, we scrutinized the passengers. Now I noticed that the teen girl wore the small crude tattoos often associated with criminal tribes: two on her upper arm and at least one more on her hand.

“Give me back the wallet,” Bob said quietly. I didn’t even know she’d taken it. She tossed her hair and looked away, inching closer to the door.

“Give it back.” Bob pointed his sunglass case (containing a hidden camera) directly at her. He’d already filmed her hand in his fanny pack. Now he focused on her face.

She licked her made-up lips and blinked nervously, trapped beside her victim. Finally, she unzipped her shoulder-bag and removed Bob’s wallet. She handed it to him meekly.

The train came to a stop and the stealthy opportunist made a quick escape. Bob and I returned to Termini, ready for lunch. We’d only been three stations away.

Back at Termini, as we shuffled along with the mob toward the escalator, we saw the uniformed officers again, and with them, the pregnant pickpocket, the trendy teenager, and at least a dozen others.

Pickpockets and police: friends? or what…

Instead of surfacing for lunch, we lingered on the platform, watching the interaction. The area had cleared of passengers. Six or eight police officers sauntered around among the 15 or so in the pickpocket gang. There were women with babies on their chests, women without babies, and many children. All of them, pickpockets and police, loitered comfortably together in a loose and shifting association. Passengers began to arrive again, but the platform was still pretty empty. A clutch of women formed a huddle nearby, bending inwards. Soon they straightened, a knot opening like the petals of a daisy, or a fist opening to reveal a treasure. As the women moved away, each counted a wad of bills and stuffed them into a pocket or backpack. They made no effort to hide their swag.

Later, analyzing the footage of our subway exploits, we were astonished to see the trendy teenager lift another wallet before she took ours. Her victim was a woman who clutched her handbag to her chest. Beneath it she wore a fanny pack. Bob’s camera, held low as we entered the train, recorded what our eyes had missed: the trendy teenager’s tattooed hand unzipping the fanny pack, removing a wallet, and rezipping the bag. Then she brought the stolen goods up to her own bag, and out of the camera’s range. Two wallets in two minutes! That could add up to serious money, depending on how many palms had to be greased.

Excerpt from Travel Advisory: How to Avoid Thefts, Cons, and Street Scams
Chapter Six: Public Transportation—Talk About Risky…

Italy metro pickpocket Roma Rome thiefhunting Thieves train

Venetian glass beads, blown live in Venice studio

Serendipitous finds are one of the joys of travel. In Venice, the rule is wander, get lost, and head away from the unbearably crowded tourist areas. Doing just that, I found Moulaye Niang’s tiny glass studio by accident, and what a gem! If handblown glass is the embodiment of Venice, these glass beads are the perfect, beautiful (and affordable) way to take home a piece of the fragile island.

Moulaye sits at his little worktable blowing small miracles. When I came in, he popped up and dragged me out into the sunlight, spinning a freshly molten bead on a metal rod. It was black and smoking. Watch, he said, turning the rod. Blue began to emerge, then streaks of red and swirls of yellow. Within minutes, the black blob cooled and metamorphosed into a gorgeous work of art.

Venetian glass beads. Moulaye Niang at work in his Venice studio. — Moulaye Niang at work in his Venice studio.

Back inside, it was hard to choose among the strung necklaces. Moulaye’s partner is responsible for designing necklaces with his beads, and her combinations are stunning. But there’s also a big tray of unstrung beads. If you can pick one, she will string it into a necklace of her design—or yours.

Many of the necklaces have “two possibilities,” as Moulaye put it: in a short style, or a totally different long style. I’ll let you visit the shop and see for yourself what that means.

Venetian glass beads

Moulaye, from Dakar, studied glassblowing with the masters on Murano. His Venetian glass beads are inspired by nature. They are exquisite, and very affordable. Not cheap. They’re the perfect Venetian takeaway or gift that will be prized forever. All you have to do is find the shop!

Muranero: Salizada del Pignater 3545, Castello, Venice.

Italy shopping Travel Venice

Pickpockets in Pisa

Pickpockets in Pisa are so active we don’t even have to go looking for them. They’re right there. Are they everywhere? It seems so!

We arrived by train, stepped out of the station, and filmed the growing crowd at the bus stop across the street where the “red” bus stops before going to the Leaning Tower.

By the time the light changed and we crossed the street, the bus had arrived. Everyone heading for the Leaning Tower mobbed the bus doors. We panned our camera across the scene and inadvertently filmed a pickpocketing-in-progress.

What we got on camera took six seconds. The victim was a Japanese woman on her way to board the bus. Her husband and four children were somewhat behind her.

This is the most common scenario. The pickpocket hits during the boarding, hoping that you’ll get on the bus and he/she won’t, putting instant distance between you and him/her.

In this case, the victim felt something—she wasn’t sure what—so didn’t board.

Pickpockets in Pisa

The pickpockets were a girl and a woman. They crowded in behind the Japanese victim, who felt something and momentarily clutched her bag. At this point, analyzing the movements of the thieves on the video we got, we can only infer that the older woman dipped into the victim’s gaping shoulder bag, took the wallet, and extracted the cash from it. The victim whipped around as the pickpockets strolled away with exaggerated nonchalance. The victim hadn’t identified who the thieves were—or if there were thieves at all.

Pickpockets in Pisa: The pickpocket's accomplice (and perhaps her daughter) is in pink tights and plaid shirt. She moves in behind the pickpocket. — The pickpocket’s accomplice (and perhaps her daughter) is in pink tights and plaid shirt. She moves in behind the blue shirted pickpocket.

Pickpockets in Pisa: The victim (in pink) looks around as the two thieves (at left) saunter away. — The victim (in pink) looks around as the two thieves (at left) cooly saunter away.

“Did they steal from you?” Bob asked, still filming.

The victim was utterly baffled. The thieves had taken her wallet, extracted all the cash, and returned the wallet.

“Why would they return it,” she wondered. She repeatedly opened her wallet to inspect the contents in disbelief. The bus departed while she and her family huddled, trying to understand what had just happened.

Pickpockets in Pisa: The victim takes inventory of her wallet as her family watches. — The victim takes inventory of her wallet as her family watches.

The victim said she had just purchased bus tickets for her family, and therefore knew that she’d had about a hundred euros. She said that that was the reason she hadn’t yet zipped her bag closed.

So why would the pickpocket return the victim’s wallet with all its credit cards and ID? We’re hearing of that occurance more and more. Yet, we know that all those documents can be monetized. They could be money in the hand of the thief.

Well, if you get your wallet back, and all its contents except the cash, you’re much less likely to bother filing a police report. You know a police report will take hours out of your day and you know you’ll never get your cash back. So what’s the point?

Pickpockets in Pisa: The victim with her stolen-and-returned wallet. — The victim with her stolen-and-returned wallet.

Meanwhile, the pickpockets in Pisa aren’t fingered. They don’t get arrested or fined. And that’s one more incident that never makes it into statistics. The city’s happy about that, and so are the police. If the pickpocket didn’t steal more than €400, and didn’t steal your property (wallet, documents), nothing will happen to her. It’s as if it never happened. That’s why I say that pickpockets are an invisible species.

“Pickpockets are an enigmatic breed. Most are never seen or felt by their victims—or anyone else. Mystery men and women (and boys and girls) moving freely among us, they’re as good as invisible. So how can they be quantified?”

Pickpockets in Pisa. The pickpockets in discussion. Mother and daughter? — The pickpockets in discussion. Mother and daughter?

And so, pickpocketing remains the travel industry’s dirty little secret. Unreported incidents = low statistics. And pickpocketing retains the ridiculous label: “petty theft.

Sigh.

Pickpockets in Pisa. Another family examines a wallet at the bus stop. Were they also victims? We didn't ask them. — Another family examines a wallet at the bus stop. Were they also victims? We didn’t ask them.

Pickpockets in Pisa. Pisa train station — Pisa train station

bus Italy pickpocket pisa train station Travel

Pizza fumé

View from the table: Fumy motorbikes buzz by the lone pizza table in the street.

The pizza joint, and it's single table on the left. — The pizza joint, and it’s single table on the left.

Sounds good, but it’s not what you think if you’re imagining a fragrant, wood-smoked Margherita pie.

Back in Naples, lunching at the tiniest pizza joint in the hillside Quartieri Spagnoli district. The “restaurant” is just an itsy-bitsy kitchen in a narrow building, with standing space for two men. It has one table—outside—with two chairs. We’re three. We try two on one chair, but it’s too hard to eat pizza that way. Pizza requires elbow room. So one of us stands.

The table is actually in the street, on a three-way corner. And though the street is narrow, it buzzes with disorderly traffic like a major thoroughfare. A steady stream of cars, motorbikes, and delivery trucks maneuver around us with only inches to spare.

The carbon monoxide fumes mingle with the vehicular honking and motorbike beeping to relegate this meal to the “fuel” category. And by that I mean the fuel-flavored pizza soothes our hunger pangs and provides energy. The “delicious” factor would be found later, over the unique coffee of Naples, and sfogliatella.

Not to disparage the thin- and chewy-crusted pizza or the quality of its tomato, mozzarella, and olive oil. But it was impossible to appreciate under the circumstances.

As take-out, though, this pizza place might really rank.

My view from the pizza table in the street corner.

Food Italy Naples pizza

The Thieves of Naples—part 9

NAPLES, ITALY, the week before christmas. We now have to rush to our last meeting with Franco outside Mergellina station. It’s 5:00 and Michele hustles us toward the train but I’m transfixed, feet rooted to the ground. I’m watching a living, black, organic shape in the sky as it morphs like an amoeba, low over the city. It’s huge, monstrous, yet graceful, and I know that it’s thousands of starlings flying some innate choreography, like a screensaver in the sky.

Michele calls Franco when we arrive at the station. Franco is unenthusiastic on the phone. “I have someone fixing the boiler right now. Well, Okay, I’m coming.” But as usual, he’s warm and lively when he zooms up on his scooter.

Despite his griping, Franco likes the film. He chuckles. He’s only concerned about certain people knowing what he does for a living. I presume that everyone already knows—he’s been working out in the open for decades. If Bob and I, a couple of occasionally-visiting foreigners, see him at work, it must be common knowledge. But it’s the neighbors in his building he’s concerned about, and his younger children. His two grown children were raised knowing what their father did. But it’s different with the small ones now. He knows they’re going to find out, but he wants to delay it.

The sky has turned from luminous dark blue to black. I’m freezing and dying to get off my feet, but this is clearly going to be a long meeting, standing here in front of the train station, circling Franco’s scooter. Franco’s phone interrupts us continuously. He wanders a few steps away to take calls, but speaks loudly.

Franco has a serious question. He asks if we think he looks like a pickpocket. We say no, not at all. He looks like an ordinary man, trustworthy. Franco likes this, and says that’s his goal. That’s why he carries no tool. The tool makes him recognizable.

I notice how very beautiful this piazza is. The surrounding buildings are immaculate, brightly painted, and warmly lit. The trees are heavy with ripe oranges so perfect they look fake.

Franco speaks sadly about his wife’s depression, that possibly it’s a form of relief: it’s okay for her to fall apart now because he is finally healthy. It is ironic, because all the times he was drug-sick or in jail, his wife had to hold the family and finances together. Bob insists she is sad because of his profession, and her worry that he can go to jail at any time. Franco says no, he hasn’t been arrested in ten years.

About teamwork, Franco says his brother is an excellent Nona (blocker) and has a gift for reading the body language and mood of marks. He can separate a couple swiftly, which is exactly what the pickpocket needs. Franco sashays gracefully between Bob and me, making me spin away. But his brother wants to do the extraction, and that he is not too good at. This causes rifts and family arguments. Bob later describes Franco’s demonstration as “smooth and practiced, like a slalom skier.”

Finally we say goodbye and Franco speeds into traffic. Michele has a lot of catching up to do translating the gist of Franco’s rants. His (Franco’s) language skills are very poor, though sometimes he is colorful and poetic. He cannot speak in Italian at all—only in the Napolitano dialect. He knows there are words out there, Michele says, so he reaches out and grabs one, though it is often the wrong one. Michele is rather colorful himself.

Together, we take the small streets back to our hotel and Michele points out what the neighborhood was like when he grew up here. It’s a long, long walk, but it warms us. We pop into bright little shops along the way and pick up cheese, bread, grapes, and that incredible licorice liqueur.

This is Part 9.

Read Part 1.

Italy Naples pickpocket Thieves

The Thieves of Naples—part 8

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Italy Naples pickpocket Thieves

The Thieves of Naples—part 7

Naples pickpockets: Angelo, left, and Michele, right.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Italy Naples pickpocket Thieves