thiefhunting – Pickpocket Bob Arno

Hardworking Paris pickpocket needs $2M for U.S. visa

Paris pickpockets: The youngest child pickpocket called for a group photo. They posed and clowned, but none of them took photos of their own. — The gang in 2014. The youngest pickpocket called for a group photo. They posed and clowned, but none of them took photos of their own—or Bob’s wallet.

“I know you!” the girl said when she turned around and got a glimpse of Bob Arno. He and I had followed the girl and her friend because, though we only saw them from behind, their posture and behavior told us they were hardworking Paris pickpockets.

We’d been ready to head home after a long day of thiefhunting in Paris when the sky broke loose and rain fell in buckets. Bob and I dove into the first Metro station we could find, drenched.

And there on the platform, two thieves; a girl-pair of pickpockets. I got my video running as we pushed onto the rush-hour train behind them. The train doors smacked close on my shoulder and opened again. I pressed closer behind Bob and the doors closed. The girls were smashed up against us.

Crowds are ideal for thievery, but this train might have been too sardiney for the pickpockets to plunge their hands downward. Unable to work, they got off at the next stop.

Paris pickpocket pursuit

We followed, which is when the younger one turned and recognized Bob—just as she did in October of 2014. Back then, two and a half years ago, she was part of a swarm of child pickpockets. I thought the youngest boy must have been about ten. She had recognized Bob from the film National Geographic made about us, Pickpocket King, which is on Youtube. Of its millions of views (almost 8,000,000 for the English language version alone), many viewers are criminal pickpockets.

This time, when the girl-thief recognized Bob, her face lit up and she reminded us that we’d met two and a half years ago. She tried to assuage her jittery older partner while dragging us off to dinner at a large pizza joint.

Dinner conversation was jolly, despite the elementary French and occasional phone app-translations. The partner slowly warmed up. Turns out the girl, Gh____, is a woman of 28. She still tells police that she’s 17 in order to avoid jail. Good trick. Common trick. And in her case, pretty believable if you don’t know her from previous arrests.

Our official Paris police source, the Mysterious Monsieur F, tells us that arrestees often claim to be under 18, and of course they often use aliases. When the police doubt the perp’s age, they can ask to do a bone scan, which may corroborate the under-18 claim. But the Paris pickpockets don’t have to give consent. That recently happened, the Mysterious Monsieur F. told me, with a 92-year-old male pickpocket. If they’re lucky, police can match these perps to previous arrest records. (If that 92-year-old has arrests spanning more than 18 years—poof!—busted!)

Portrait of a pickpocket

Gh____ has six children! Right, I wonder why. Police can’t jail perps who are pregnant or carrying an infant. So the pickpockets have lots of babies and share them around. But Gh___ said she truly loves having many children, loves coming home to the commotion with them all swarming around her, and wants to have many more. She’s a Gypsy, and the Gypsy culture truly does revere its children.

Gh____ was first married at 13 and had her first child soon after. Which makes me wonder: were any of the children in the gang we met in 2014 Gh____’s children? They could have been. I regret that I didn’t think to ask her.

We are connected to Gh____ on facebook, but she is completely illiterate. She started pickpocketing at a very young age and didn’t go to school. All her family are thieves, she told us. I wonder now if that includes her kids.

Gh____’s partner that day was V___, who seemed older, and can write. V___ wrote down Gh____’s contact info for us. She has five children and doesn’t want any more.

Gh____ told us that she recognizes all the civilian police officers, and they know her. They can even recognize each other from behind. They also know her distinctive tattoos, which she got in jail. [Aha! So she has spent time in jail!]

Gh____ claims she only takes cash, not credit cards. (We find that hard to believe, given the incredible potential for exploiting cards. But credit card fraud is a higher level crime than cash-stealing, and why should she trust us with all her secrets?) She’s saving up to join other family members in the U.S. She needs two million dollars for a visa, she said. Her family in the U.S. make a lot of money with credit cards, and she wants to join them.

She then displayed her hefty wad: at least $1,300 in fresh U.S. hundred-dollar bills and a few 50s. (All the bills looked new; had she just exchanged a collection of foreign currency? Or was she stalking marks she spotted at cash machines?)

Gh____ insisted on paying for dinner, then got antsy to get back to work. It looks like she’ll get that two million!

Paris pickpockets – kids you wouldn’t suspect

A pickpocket in Paris. Would you suspect him? Paris pickpockets — A pickpocket in Paris. Would you suspect him?

“No, no, I won’t steal from you,” the little boy says. “You’re my brother! Family! Family!” He touches his heart, repeating “family, family.” He calls for a group photo.

It hadn’t begun so friendly. It was day three of our eight days of thiefhunting in Paris. Day one we watched the Bosnian pickpocket get arrested. Day two we found the Bosnian pickpocket by sheer coincidence, in all of Paris. Today, we ride the Metro into guaranteed pickpocket territory and find a large gang of Paris pickpockets lounging on the platform benches. They’re as good as waiting for us.

Paris pickpockets

But they’re children! Spotting the kids, we hop off the train at Anvers, the subway stop for Sacré-Coeur, Montmartre, and the Dali museum. In other words, a gateway for tourists. We walk up and over the tracks to the platform for the opposite direction, and slowly saunter to a spot close to the kids. They look us up and down but don’t move. There are eight of them, and two others who come and go. They appear to be aged ten to 18.

When a train comes and they don’t budge, I do my usual pantomime: look at my watch, glance around fretfully as if waiting for someone. How else to indicate why we didn’t get on the train either?

When the next train comes the kids spring into action, splitting up to work different compartments and different doors of the train. Out of nowhere, an interloper appears—a competing pickpocket, a “lone wolf,” probably Moroccan.

Bob and I push onto the train, barely packing ourselves in against the crowd. None of the child thieves are near us, but the tall Moroccan (I have to call him something) is beside Bob, intently working on the man in front of him. His left hand probes pockets while his right grasps a ceiling strap in a manner that keeps his mark from turning.

Pickpockets in Paris on break. Eight of the 10 we met in a Paris gang, moments before they returned to work. — Pickpockets on break. Eight of the 10 we met in a Paris gang, moments before they returned to work.

Paris pickpockets: When a train pulled in the gang dispersed, each to his own mark. Meanwhile, another pickpocket, not part of this gang, arrived and got on the train beside us. — When a train pulled in the gang dispersed, each to his own mark. Meanwhile, another pickpocket, not part of this gang, arrived and got on the train beside us.

Paris pickpockets: The North African pickpocket is groping with his left hand in the pocket of the man in navy. His right arm holds the mark in place. — The North African pickpocket is groping with his left hand in the pocket of the man in navy. His right arm holds the mark in place.

Paris pickpockets: The North African pickpocket gets off at the train's first stop. — The North African pickpocket gets off at the train’s first stop.

Paris pickpockets: Back to the gang: Here, they've just recognized Bob Arno from Pickpocket King, the documentary National Geographic made about him. Bob has just stolen the girl's watch. — Back to the gang: Here, they’ve just recognized Bob Arno from Pickpocket King, the documentary National Geographic made about him. Bob has just stolen the girl’s watch.

Paris pickpockets: Befriending the pickpockets has an ulterior motive. We never know where a "friendship" will go. — Befriending the pickpockets has an ulterior motive. We never know where a “friendship” will go.

Paris pickpockets: Skipping and singing, the pickpockets lead us out of the subway and into Place Pigalle, a safe place to talk. — Skipping and singing, the pickpockets lead us out of the subway and into Place Pigalle, a safe place to talk.

At the next stop the Moroccan gets off and we follow. Bob calls to him politely, asking for a moment of his time. Just to talk. We’re not police, Bob shouts, there’s no problem, just talk! All this in French. The Moroccan bounds up the stairs. Bob follows. The Moroccan dashes through the exit turnstile and tears up another flight of stairs. Bob is close behind. The two of them pick up speed, Bob chasing the thief for a full block. “Age won out,” Bob says later.

We return to the Metro station, Pigalle, and encounter a distressed family who’d just been robbed. It was their first day in Paris and their stolen wallet had contained a lot of money. “A lot of money,” they reiterate. Welcome to Paris.

It’s good to meet these victims while we’re on the hunt. They remind us how devastating their losses are, how innocent their mistakes are, how easily their guard can fail them for just a moment, for example, making sure that their three small children get on the train safely. A pickpocket needs only that moment. That moment changes everything.

Descending to the platform at Pigalle, we see the whole gang. Bob speaks to the kids in English, French, a bit of Italian. They’re chattering in all those languages, and something else we don’t recognize. As Bob tries the different languages, the ten of them spread out on the platform to evade him, shouting No!, No!, Fuck you!. The youngest crosses in front of Bob, raises his hand and says “Going!” as he and the rest of them hop onto the departing train. Bob leans into the compartment, persisting, cajoling.

Suddenly one of the girls lights up. “You! you! you!,” she says. “The film! in Italy, you steal the belt, the tie, the watch… I know you!”

Now she’s laughing, hopping up and down. She jumps off the train and the other nine follow. She explains excitedly to the other kids who are still confused and dubious. Then Bob steals her watch and they all break up, high-fiving Bob and each other. The little pickpockets are thieves, but they’re also children. They’re delighted, and believe they have met a celebrity. Not just a celebrity the girl had seen on TV, in Pickpocket King, the documentary National Geographic made about us. But a celebrity pickpocket, someone who gave recognition and a measure of fame to her profession.

Bob’s behavior—laughing and playing with the thieves, has an ulterior motive. He appears to be best buddies with them, but he hasn’t forgotten the devastated Danes we ached for just minutes before. The little boy tries his sneakiest swipes on Bob, though he can barely reach the inside jacket pockets he’s boasting of. Meanwhile, Bob is wondering how he can prolong the conversation, how he can make a translator materialize out of thin air, how he can learn about the criminal organization of this child gang. His fun-and-games clowning around is self-serving. He’s hoodwinking the kids, deluding them, swindling the swindlers.

“I want to talk to you about your life!” Bob tells them.

“Okay, but not here,” they say. “Let’s go!” And like the Pied Piper, Bob Arno and the ten little pickpockets zig, zag, and bounce their way along the platform, up the stairs, through the turnstile, and up another flight into the bright sunlight, laughing all the way.

All the kids are wearing wide-strap messenger bags diagonally across their chests. If you’re a regular reader of this site or if you’ve read our book, you recognize the ominous messenger bag. Floppy, empty, the bag is a pickpocket tool. The thief lifts it into position to hide his thieving hands.

A few of the older pickpockets drift away. Perhaps they’ve gone back to work. Perhaps they’re lurking on the perimeter, keeping an eye on the younger ones. To the six who now surround him, Bob is a rock star.

The children want to show their slickest steals. They want to show off. They want attention from an adult as children always do. “Look at me! Watch!” They want attention as pickpockets always do, as if crying out: “look at me, I’m a person, not only a thief.” Living on the fringes of society, off the grid, they crave validation.

These seem like happy kids, especially the younger ones. The older ones are more somber, cracking smiles and goofing around, only to remember their dignity, it seems; then they straighten their shoulders and take a step back. We don’t know what kind of lives they live. They probably don’t attend school. After all, we found them on a Tuesday afternoon in October. Do they live in a tented camp on some remote outskirt? In crowded squalor among dozens crammed into a tenement tower? Squatting in a boarded-up building? Are they all related? Are they gypsy?

After another round of mock steals—this time they line up to experience Bob’s wallet steal—the little one calls for a group photo. They throw their arms around one another, around Bob, and mug for the camera.

Then there’s some fast chatter and the kids have had enough. They want to go back to work—or maybe they need to. Do they have quotas to make? We haven’t learned much about them but, as Bob always says, you have to try. You have to start somewhere and see where it goes.

The girl who initially recognized Bob calls the gang to order and they bound off to the subway, turning in the distance to wave goodbye before diving back underground.

5/27/17 edit: We met this girl again two and a half years later in May 2017. Read about how she’s saving up for a U.S. visa and why, in Hardworking Paris Pickpockets.

France metro paris pickpocket thiefhunting Thieves

Pickpockets in Paris

Pickpocketing in Paris is out of control.

Or rather, the pickpockets in Paris are in control. The police arrest them regularly then see the same faces on the streets and in the Metro a day later. Frustrated, the police soldier on.

Bob Arno and I ran across a just-arrested pickpocket at Gare de Lyon, a huge train and subway station in Paris—one of the biggest and busiest stations in Europe.

The pickpocket, a seasoned pro, knew just what to say to the arresting officers: sorry, yes, I did it, but it was my first time! The police can’t prove otherwise, because the perp can decline to give a mugshot and may give a false name. Not only that, he can refuse to give fingerprints! If he does refuse to give his fingerprints, he must pay a fine of several thousand euros and/or do jail time. No problem on either count. Fines are just a cost of doing business for pickpockets everywhere, and jail time is certain to be short. Very short.

Gare de Lyon train station, Paris; Pickpockets in Paris — Gare de Lyon train station, Paris

Scene of the crime: The victim sat in one of these red chairs with her purse on the floor against the wall. From behind, the pickpocket lifted the wallet from the purse. Pickpockets in Paris. — Scene of the crime: The victim sat in one of these red chairs with her purse on the floor against the wall. From behind, the pickpocket lifted the wallet from the purse.

Pickpockets in Paris

We got the usual sob story from the victim, a 70-ish French woman who had just flown in from Washington D.C. and was waiting for her train to Lyon. She was tired, she was reading, and her purse was beside her on the floor. [Yikes! Better read Purseology 101!]

The pickpocket had snuck up from behind, took the wallet from her bag on the floor, and departed—all under the observant eye of an undercover police officer (hero!).

Lucky victim!

Late the next day, Bob and I were heading back to our hotel with a feast of cheeses, wine, baguette, and fruit. Changing trains at Chatelet station, we fast-walked along the platform when Bob suddenly caught his breath. He stopped short, plopped down on a bench, and launched into an urgent monologue to a glum-looking man. It took me a moment to recognize him. It was yesterday’s pickpocket!

I was speechless. In all of Paris, how did our paths happen to cross? How did Bob notice him, slumped there on a platform bench? How did Bob recognize him? Amazing!

The pickpocket shook his head no, no, no, but Bob blabbed on and on like a high-pressure salesman. The pickpocket had just gotten out of jail. Twenty-four, maybe 26 hours of punishment. Bob told him “you’re going to have dinner with us, you’re going to talk to us, and you’re going to have a good time, you’ll see.” The thief could not refrain.

No, we did not bring him back to our hotel room to share our hand-picked bounty. We got a back corner table at a moules joint where, after a hearty steak dinner, the thief began to relax. Smiling, leaning back, the man spoke easily to us in very good English which he said he learned while “working” in Switzerland.

Bob Arno, master manipulator, cannot be refused. After first convincing the nervous thief to go with us, he had now expertly calmed him with casual talk as if he were a confederate. After wolfing down the steak, the thief got up and went out for a smoke, leaving his backpack with us. He returned, relaxed and unhurried. Bob showed him video of other pickpockets.

The pickpocket must have been seriously grateful for the grub—apparently, jail cuisine is not what we think of as “French food.” He hadn’t eaten. He was so grateful that he agreed to talk to us on camera. We pulled out a naked little GoPro video camera—toy-like, unthreatening.

Pickpockets in Paris. After a hearty dinner, the Bosnian pickpocket watches video of other thieves. — After a hearty dinner, the Bosnian pickpocket watches video of other thieves.

Forty years old, “Dennis,” the easy name he said he uses, is from Kosovo, where he did military service. He spent a long time in Barcelona, another pickpocket paradise, and has a Romanian wife and a child there. He gave us his real name and email address. Or did he? When we tried to email him later, the address failed.

By the time we began the interview on camera, the Bosnian had gradually become twitchy. He couldn’t sit still in his chair. He fidgeted, scratched himself all over, threw glances over his shoulders. Must be a tweeker. But he still smiled, laughed, and talked openly about his profession and yesterday’s arrest.

He usually works with a partner, but his partner was in jail. His specialty is stealing from women’s purses. [Of course—they’re the easiest, having no nerve endings.]

His favored venues are train stations (but not on trains), airports, and hotel lobbies. He does not do anything with credit cards. I asked if he sells them to anyone. He said he doesn’t. Does he just throw them in the trash? No, he leaves them somewhere to be found. [By another thief? I didn’t ask.]

Well, if he doesn’t abuse credit cards, he wants cash. Who carries the most cash? Travelers. Hence his venues, right? The wallet of his victim yesterday contained over 400 euros. [His own wallet, though empty of cash, is an elegant black Montblanc, certainly from the breast pocket of some unfortunate gentleman.]

The plainclothes police officer who arrested him yesterday had tried to get him on the floor for handcuffing, the standard method. The Bosnian chuckled. “I’m so much bigger and stronger than he is, I just gave him my wrists and said please, it isn’t necessary to put me on the floor.”

After fifteen minutes on camera, the pickpocket was squirming in his seat. Bob tried to get him to agree to meet tomorrow, but he wouldn’t commit. He just wanted to go home, he said, he just wanted a shower. I’m pretty sure he needed a hit of something.

We did not hear from him again. Not even for another hearty dinner.

In the style of Financial Times’ “Lunch with the FT” column, I’ll close with the details of our dinner:

[infobox subtitle=”

1 Moules Mariniere
1 Moules Madras curry
1 Steak
Fries all around
2 Creme Brulee
1 Belgian chocolate fondant
1 Perrier
1 espresso

€70

” bg=”pink” color=”black” opacity=”on” space=”10″ link=”no link”]Dinner with a pickpocket[/infobox]

Next: Professional child pickpockets in Paris

France paris pickpocket thiefhunting 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

Child phone thieves answer questions

Florin and his 13-year-old pal emphasize that they are not pickpockets—they are phone thieves. They steal phones from tabletops, not from people. The distinction may be moot if you were the owner of a phone stolen by Florin & Friend.

Even with a monstrous TV camera aimed at them inches away, the boys spoke openly about their work. Florin even donned a fluffy microphone. As the team’s elder at about 20, he was its tongue-tied spokesman, frustrated by foreign language difficulties. He and the kid spoke Romanian, the kid and Bob spoke in rudimentary French.

We found them on La Rambla again, one month after our first conversation with them. Look closely at their photos. Do these children look suspicious? Would you be concerned about their nearness to you? If you don’t recognize the silent languages of thieves, you’d find them disarming.

Message to readers: Do not leave your smartphone on cafe tables, even while you’re sitting right there.

We’d first spotted Florin, the kid, and another youngster outside a cafe in Barcelona in July. Quick on the draw, I caught them on video as they attempted to steal iPhones from cafe tables, right under the noses of the phone-owners. I’ve already described how Florin & Friends steal smartphones. Like magicians, they practice a refined version of the Postcard Trick.

Returning to Barcelona with a German TV crew (from RTL Punkt 12) in August, we found the boys still at large and at work (no surprise). Having watched Bob Arno on YouTube in the interim, they agreed readily to speak on television. They’re at ease on camera, even eager; yet… naive, as if unaware they’ll be broadcast across the land. Florin ignored the camera, while the kid looked right into it like a professional PR rep pitching viable career options. They showed no discomfort; they did not mug for the camera. Pretty much, they ignored it. Question: How could we fail to ask why they admitted to being thieves on TV.

“I am not pickpocket.” Florin stressed that he doesn’t know a thing about pickpocketing, only about stealing phones from tables. We believed him.

Unfolding paper notes from their back pockets, both boys demonstrated a variety of finger techniques for the under-the-cover grip. Unlike most other thieves we’ve interviewed, neither of these was the slightest concerned about demonstrating thievery moves in public. Must be their youth and inexperience. Perhaps they haven’t yet been in jail. Question: why did we fail to ask if they’d ever been arrested or jailed?

The kids were unhurried and, although they did not appear to be nervous, both were childishly fidgety. Florin frequently scrubbed his face with his palms in frustration, partly understanding our questions in English but unable to respond without his pal’s French translations.

The youngster, all pimply and peachfuzz, lifted his shirt to air his flat belly, his hands flittering around his middle. I take this handsome dusky boy with his sweet smile as a Roma; but not Florin. We don’t often see mixed gangs. Question: why didn’t we ask?

Bob Arno: How many phones do you steal in a day?

Florin: Maybe two, three, four. Sometimes five, sometimes none.

BA: Where do you sell them? Do you have a fence?

F: No, I sell directly to buyers.

BA: What do you get for a phone?

F: 100 to 300 euros, depending on the model. Average €200, older ones €100.

BA: How long have you been in Barcelona?

F: Only six months, but I’ve been in Spain for five years.

BA: Do you think you might try working in France or Germany?

F: Not France, because other groups are already in control there. Not Germany, the police there are too tough. We are afraid of the German police. The police here are no problem.

BA: How many people in Barcelona are expert at this method of stealing phones from tables?

F: One thousand. [The two boys concur.]

BA: How many are from Romania?

F: About one hundred who steal, not just phones from tables. Pickpockets, too.

Despite the midsummer heat, the boys hung on each others shoulders. The affectionate child kept a hand on Florin’s shoulder whenever possible, habitually rubbing his own stomach in an unconscious manner, as if petting a puppy.

So many unanswered (unasked) questions! The impromptu interview is rarely perfect. Complicated by a multitude of factors, we’re usually content, if not triumphant, with what we get. We deal with criminals in our line of work: skittish, cagey, angry, fearful—we never know. To enable any conversation at all, we must firstly make our subjects comfortable. There is tension: while they suss us out, while we figure out our best tactic. One wrong move, one wrong question, and the subject walks. Like Zelig, we tailor our temper and pick a posture commensurate with our quarry. Later we regret, then accept our omissions.

At the end of the long interview and exchange of demonstrations, after handshakes and multilingual goodbyes, the boys crossed into the center of La Rambla. With the camera zooming to follow them from a distance, the young crooks disappeared into the unsuspecting tourist crowd. Our kind of thiefhunting means you catch ’em, and you throw ’em back in.

Barcelona phone pickpocket spain thiefhunting Thieves

How to spot a thief in a crowd

How to spot a thief: Anyone stand out like a sore thumb? How to spot a pickpocket — Anyone stand out like a sore thumb?

About how to spot a thief or a pickpocket, I said in my last post that “Bob and I locked onto them the moment they appeared in front of us.” Why? How did we know? What got our attention?

To everyone else in the vicinity, and there were thousands over the course of an hour, the two men appeared perfectly innocuous. Better said, they caused no one to look at them twice. So why did we?

How to spot a thief

First let’s look at why no one else heard alarm bells. By design, the two blended neatly into the ever-changing crowd. They wore clean, bland, ordinary clothes. They both carried bags with the straps worn diagonally across their chests, as do many people, including their victim, and Bob, and I. They both carried jackets, as did many people, as did I. One of the men carried a tourist map—as did many people. They were clean-shaven with neat haircuts.

For all intents and purposes, they were germs hidden in full view: an invisible virus in an international organism; undetectable agents of loss.

To Bob and me, the duo stuck out like a sore thumb at first glance. In two seconds, we had each processed the following: they both wore those messenger bags—crosswise. They both carried jackets. One held a map. They walked as if they didn’t know each other. Their eyes scanned the scene around them. Their expressions revealed tension.

How to spot a thief: Pickpocket with his map-prop. How to spot a pickpocket. — Pickpocket with his map-prop.

Right. That’s not much to go on. Pretty much what anyone who bothered to look would notice.

Our second stage of observation took in behavior during half a minute or so. They faked tourist gestures, including pointing into the distance and holding open their map without really looking at it. They conducted an unnatural pattern of movement; for example, reversing to walk in the direction they’d just come from, and crossing and recrossing the same street. They loitered with uncertainty and fidgetiness (I know—that’s hard to define or criticize.)

As the minutes ticked by, the pair showed further suspicious behavior. They were looping—that is, returning to a location from a different angle. They left the area on a bus, but returned on foot. They tailed a target mark, then gave up. They were persistent, trudging up and down the same block, clearly looking for something.

How to spot a thief: When the mark stops and turns so do his pursuers. Hot to spot a pickpocket. — When the mark stops and turns so do his pursuers.

Finally, they spotted an easy target. The mark was the epitome of a victim. Elderly, alone, physically weak, discombobu-lated, and distracted. His trouser pockets were loose and gaping. His shoulder bag hung on a long strap behind his back.

The old man was immobile gazing at a shop window when they found him. Certainly the easiest game around. The pickpockets stared at him openly for several minutes. When the geezer finally moved, they closed in on him from both sides.

How to spot a thief: Vulnerable victim sandwiched by pickpocket bookends. How to spot a pickpocket. — Vulnerable victim sandwiched by pickpocket bookends.

Over and over, the crowd foiled their attempts. The thieves stuck to him, though sometimes they walked past him only to stop and look back at him.

During all this, Bob was fairly stationary. He had a good angle and a long lens. I followed the action, the caboose of the parade. Sometimes when the thieves stopped I stood on the opposite side of a billboard where I could only watch their shadows or their shoes. I watched their reflections in the windows all the way across the street, or in the windows of passing cars and buses. I looked at my watch repeatedly, as if I were waiting for someone (as falsely as they held out their map). I strenuously exercised my peripheral vision muscles. When I tracked the team down past the outdoor art market, I watched them from between the paintings on display.

They became cagey. Eventually, they felt our eyes. They stared me down a few times. One covered his face as he crossed in front of Bob and his camera. But they weren’t sure about us and continued their efforts in plain sight.

How to spot a thief: The victim, the two pickpockets, and Bambi close behind. How to spot a pickpocket. — The victim, the two pickpockets, and Bambi close behind.

Bob and I define “pickpockets” as non-violent. “Muggers” use violence, or the threat of violence. But how do we know who we’re dealing with? We’ve been threatened by thugs in St. Petersburg before. We know that thieves in Russia often carry razor blades. Who are we to predict the level of violence these stalkers are capable of?

There’s also the drug connection. Many pickpockets are slaves to habits. What state are they in when we find them? Are they high and full of confidence? Are they coming down and desperate? Do they have creditors breathing down their necks? Have they failed so many times they’re ready to snap? Has a judge warned them that if they show their faces in his courtroom again he’ll throw the book at them?

How many are there? A “lone wolf,” a pair, a gang? Is there a controller lurking unseen on the perimeter? A spotter? A colleague with a knife who’ll step in at a whistle?

What about police protection? I mean, might the thieves have police protection? Is that what happened to us in Russia a few years ago, when we thought we were about to be robbed by pseudo cops or by real, corrupt cops? Maybe the police were just protecting the pickpockets who pay them off.

Tracking criminals is risky business. Bob and I have to weigh the various factors, sometimes in an eyeblink, and decide on our strategy. How blatant can we be? Should we continue to follow or approach the thief or gang? What have we got on us, equipment-wise? Better we slink away in the crowd? Or talk to the victim and let the thieves go?

How to spot a thief in a crowd? We don’t always make the right decision. Maybe best is when Bob and I split up. He makes contact while I blend into the crowd and keep on filming. Then his cover is blown, but not mine.

pickpocket St. Petersburg thiefhunting Thieves victims

Street crime in Lisbon

Thieves are thick on Lisbon’s two main tourist trams, 15 and 28. Within five minutes of arriving at a tram stop for #28, we’d pegged a pair of pickpockets. One carried a flat messenger bag and a newspaper, the other carried a jacket in the sweltering heat.

They stood well away from the gathering crowd waiting for #28. I was among the crowd; Bob watched from across the street, then down the block.

When the tram eventually lumbered along its tracks toward the stop, it was as if a director had called “action!” The waiting passengers tried to anticipate its exact stopping point; the two thieves moved in; Bob got into line; I kept to Bob’s right, camera aimed at his back pocket; one pickpocket threw his jacket over his left arm and went for Bob’s (prop) wallet; the other pickpocket got behind me, trying for my purse.

Slowly, we all mounted the tram stairs. I knew the thieves hadn’t succeeded, because they boarded also. If they’d gotten anything they wouldn’t have; but they still thought they had a chance.

Bob and I were both using new video cameras, and we both missed the shot. I had the better opportunity. Perfectly positioned, I saw everything. But I didn’t press the record button hard enough (though I thought I did). I missed the money shot.

The thieves moved to the back of the tram, where another pair, a man and a woman, joined them. It looked like they planned to work together. We were pretty sure they would try to block a departing passenger and pickpocket him on the stairs. Bob wanted to be that passenger, but I wanted to wait and see how their game played out.

A good samaritan warns of her city's thieves with a laugh.

Meanwhile, a woman looked at me with a big, friendly smile. “His wallet,” she said, patting her hip, “it’s dangerous…that way.” Laughing, she pointed her thumb behind her toward the back of the tram. To Bob she said “In her pocket is better.”

As the tram trundled on, I wondered why one of the pickpockets moved on my purse.

Signs onboard don't help boarding passengers.

It’s made of thick, rough leather, has a narrow opening high in my armpit, and a deep shape. It would be impossible to get into—unless the man had a razor blade. Even with a blade it would be a challenge, but the cutpurse wouldn’t necessarily realize it. Not particularly stylish, the purse is perfect for thiefhunting. I found it in Beijing.

Too soon, the tram came to the end of its line and no one departed in front of the thieves. As the team of four dispersed, Bob accosted the original pair. We learned that they’re Portuguese, as was the third man, while his female partner was Bosnian. One of the thieves got busy on his mobile phone and wandered off—we guessed he was speaking with the third man.

We kept up a conversation with the second, who was willing to talk. He demonstrated his technique, nipping the wallet between his first and second fingertips.

Bob and I waited for the next tram to go back. So did the foursome, smoking, separated, cautious, on the grassy area at the end of the line. We got on; of course they didn’t.

The old elevator tower: scene of many crimes.

We learned that pickpockets are also active on the stairs around the old elevator tower, despite the presence of security guards. We didn’t spend much time there. Worse, gang activity has increased dramatically over the past year, with immigrants arriving from the favellas of Brazil. Car-jackings are commonplace, even in the city center. Graffiti was everywhere.

Not all graffiti is this colorful. Many buildings are this dilapidated.

The whole city is crumbling. Peeling plaster and missing tiles made for some interesting textures on the walls. Unfortunately, Lisbon can’t pull off the elegant flaky-paint look the way Venice does. Lisbon just looks terribly dilapidated, its glory days over, deteriorating as we watch. Its structures are still grand, but they’re dressed like homeless derelicts, with the same empty-eyed glower, all dignity and self-respect burned off by neglect.

What I have always loved about Lisbon (and other Portuguese cities) are the sidewalks; and these, I’m happy to report, are still immaculately maintained. Black and white mosaics of smooth marble cubes, they are still neat, level, and polished to a slippery shine. The designs are different wherever you walk, some simple geometric shapes, some extravagant patterns, even signs of the zodiac. I’ll post about the making of these mosaics later.

Lisbon's lovely marble mosaic pavements.

Next day, same place. Waiting for tram 28. We’re melting in the heat and up shuffles this guy, with a thick, dirty sweatshirt tied around his waist, and a messenger bag. Not too obvious, is he? When the tram neared he dragged himself into position, and stared blankly up at the shouting driver. The driver was not shouting at him; he was saying something about a broken door, that the tram was going out of service. No one got on. Our man trundled away, like a tram off its tracks, with no discernible destination.

pickpocket street crime theft thiefhunting tourist crime Travel

At large in Rome

We spent some time observing this woman in Rome. She carried a child in a sling and walked with another woman. We thought we knew what they were up to, but we never confirmed anything. When they stopped for ice cream, Bob tried to talk to her. They spoke a bit in a garbled mix of French and German, but there was no real content. She allowed herself and the child to be photographed.

Italy Rome thiefhunting

Bob Arno on thiefhunting

Off stage but on duty: Bob Arno films thieves on public transportation, here with a hidden camera in his right hand.

A Thief on Thieves
Conning Criminals into Conversation

Las Vegas — Who said it takes a thief to know a thief? The Tall Swede Journal detained a legal one to tell about his criminal cohorts.

Tall Swede Journal: When you’re not on stage, you find, follow, and film street thieves in action. That’s not a common pursuit, is it?

Bob Arno: I don’t think so. My wife and I might be the only ones who take it to such a sophisticated level.

TSJ: You seek out dangerous criminals with your wife?

BA: They’re usually not dangerous. But we can never be certain.

TSJ: Why might they be dangerous?

Bob speaks with two slippery pickpockets in Estonia.

BA: Many have drug habits, so they’re unpredictable, and so is their level of desperation. Others have such long arrest records, they may do anything in an attempt to avoid jail. And others may be illegally in the country. Desperate, hunted people who are already on the wrong side of the law may feel they have little to lose.

TSJ: Bob, were you ever on the other side? You must have been.

BA: You won’t find a police record on me!

TSJ: I know, we’ve checked. How, then, do you find these thieves? How do you recognize what they are?

BA: We hang out in the environments that are suitable for this sort of occupation and we focus on behavior. A person intending to steal exhibits certain necessary “tells.” He must look at his target, watch for police, beware of curious bystanders, and surreptitiously maneuver his target into a viable position. He usually also carries a “tool,” something to cover his moves, but it’s almost always an ordinary object which alone wouldn’t cause suspicion.

“I claim [to the thief] to be in the same
profession, but I don’t elaborate. I don’t
tell them that I only steal on stage.”

TSJ: Would it be fair to say that you profile?

BA: It would be fair to say that we profile behavior.

TSJ: You mean that a thief doesn’t behave like a citizen or tourist?

BA: He certainly wishes to, but a trained observer can see through his charade.

TSJ: Any other way you find thieves?

BA: Yes. By allowing them to steal my own wallet. I stuff it with cut paper and shove it deep into my pocket. I have a wallet that’s been stolen over a hundred times.

TSJ: How do you get it back?

BA: Sometimes I steal it back! Or I steal something else from the thief, like his cell phone or sunglasses. Then I offer to trade his item for my wallet. All of this is simply to start a conversation and establish rapport.

TSJ: Then they open up to you? Why don’t they just run?

An Italian thief greets Bob with hugs and kisses, then introduces him to his pals. — An Italian thief greets Bob with hugs and kisses, then introduces him to his pals (Filmed with a hidden camera.)

BA: They’re curious about who I am. I claim to be in the same profession they are in, but I don’t elaborate. I don’t tell them that I steal on stage, and they don’t understand the concept of returning stolen items. So, yes. About half of them are willing to talk and the other half prefer to disappear into the crowd.

TSJ: What do they reveal? What do you learn from them?

BA: Techniques, motivations, their lifestyles, the politics that allow them—or force them, from their perspective—to steal for a living.

TSJ: And what do you do with the data you gather?

BA: I train law enforcement and security agencies, I teach travelers how to avoid becoming victims, I’ve written a book, and I testify as an expert witness.

TSJ: Seems to be a useful pursuit, if an unusual one.

BA: Yes. And it also satisfies the original intent, which was to adapt street techniques for use in my stage show. But it turns out that the intelligence is appreciated by more than just my audience.

TSJ: Are you still actively researching street crime?

BA: Absolutely! We focused on Central America recently. We spent significant time in Panama interviewing a very dangerous gang [article coming shortly], and we are planning to revisit the Middle East later this year.

TSJ: I have to ask you once more: have you ever stolen for real?

BA: I have a very fine soap collection.

TSJ: Alright Bob, I’ll leave it at that. Thanks very much for speaking with The Tall Swede Journal.

This interview was originally published in The Tall Swede Journal.

Bob Arno interview thiefhunting Thieves