Actual, working pickpockets discuss their demonstrations in Bob Arno’s National Geographic documentary “Pickpocket King”
With over two million views, our 50-minute National Geographic documentary “Pickpocket King” continues to raise questions. Here, Bob Arno addresses the frequently discussed issues of why the active pickpockets showed themselves in the film, and how they feel about it now.
Few people realize that pickpockets can roam across most of Europe with impunity, not getting caught if they work in a team. Since pickpocketing is a non-violent crime a judge will seldom mete out a prison sentence when they are caught, unless a victim testifies in court and a police officer observed the act. In Italy, victims seldom testify, and certainly not in Naples. Mess with the Camorra and you stand the chance of much worse happening to you than losing a wallet.
When pickpockets work in teams one member of the troupe makes sure there are no undercover police officers nearby to witness the theft. They can usually spot the cops before the cops recognize the pickpockets—a cat-and-mouse game in extreme. Each member in the pickpocket crew has a specific duty or position during the set-up and extraction. This was not detailed clearly in our National Geographic documentary, Pickpocket King.
Most of the pickpockets in Naples are already well-known to the police (and most have served time). So those thieves who showed themselves in the film were not afraid of becoming known to the police or damaging their reputations. Maybe, just maybe, their participation in the film in fact helped them with an argument that they cooperated in spreading useful information on how people might avoid becoming victims. For the pickpockets who were on parole, their participation may even have helped convince a judge that they were trying to go straight. Yes—Naples is a charming city but also a very cynical one.
But in retrospect, all the pickpockets are unhappy today that they were featured in our film. Not because of law enforcement, but because the global success of the film on Youtube makes their work harder. Tourists know now to beware. But the pickpockets never expected the viral success of the Pickpocket King documentary.
The film teaches a traveler’s best defense against pickpocketing: know in advance what to expect and take proper precautions, especially on crowded public transportation. And then enjoy the charm of Naples and its surroundings. Bambi and I feel it is one of the greatest tourist destinations on earth because of the diversity, unique charm, fabulous food, and true warmth of the people.
Fehim Hamidovic, convicted chief of the Hamidovic pickpocket networkFagin—heard of him? An 1837 fiction.
Hamidovic—know that name? He’s an actual, living, pickpocket kingpin. Reality.
Hamidovic, arrested in late 2010, ran a network of hundreds, possibly thousands, of child pickpockets across Europe. He rounded up the underage kids, mostly Eastern European girls, and forced them to steal.
Hamidovic Pickpocket Gang
Forced! They were threatened with violence (including rape and cigarette burns) if they failed to bring in 300-1,000 euros each day. Not angels to begin with and already used to a rough life, once under Hamidovic’s leadership their treatment was brutal.
The children are all under 13, or so they claim—too young to be held by police. Their actual ages are unknown. When arrested, the young thieves all have the same answers. Name? Hamidovic. Age? 12. Police have no choice but to release them.
Pickpockets on break. Eight of the 10 we met in a Paris gang, moments before they returned to work.
300-1,000 euros each day. That explains the persistence and brazenness of the child pickpockets in Paris we observed and spoke with a few months ago. And it explains the 1.3 million euros Hamidovic is said to have netted in just one year. Not to mention his fancy houses, Porsche, and six-figure casino visits. And perhaps it explains why Hamidovic, living the luxe life, reported no income. (“Occupation: organized crime boss.”)
Hamidovic and his underthugs in the Hamidovic pickpocket network trained their little criminals to target Asians when possible, because Hamidovic believed Asians carried more cash and were easy victims. But anyone is fair game in the steal business. In the Paris Metro, we watch clusters of 8-12 child pickpockets fan out and flit from target to target, fast, fleet, unapologetic when noticed.
Fehim Hamidovic, from former Yugoslavia, was 58 when he was arrested along with his wife and two sons. He was 60 when sentenced to seven years in prison. Believing that the Hamidovic pickpocket network was responsible for two-thirds or more of thefts on the country’s Metro, French authorities breathed a sigh of relief. They had dismantled the network. They’d taken down the boss.
“This ‘beast’ will soon have a new head,” said The Mysterious Monsieur F., our official source in Paris, when Hamidovic was finally caught. “The arrest of the chief of the Hamidovic pickpocket network did not change anything, they are always there. And they make a carnage!”
Skipping and singing, the pickpockets lead us out of the subway and into Place Pigalle, a safe place to talk.
“Nobody sees these ‘clouds’ of pickpockets, even though they are not especially discreet. The Hamidovic ‘work’ very well but they are not wary. It is not a problem—there is no risk of prison for them.”
So—the head of the pickpocket gang, this modern-day Fagin, is finally off the streets. Yet, the Hamidovic pickpocket network is alive and well.
A brother, a sister, a nephew, and others have stepped in to perpetuate the gang that authorities call a well-oiled machine and “a powerful entity, perennial, professional”, and “vast network of human trafficking,” “an underground economy, with earnings and protection.” As well as Paris, the vast network operated throughout France, in Belgium, Spain, and Italy.
The Hamidovic pickpocket network grabs headlines, to the exclusion of their also-numerous competitors. The Mysterious Monsieur F. laments:
“The French news reports show only the Hamidovic, causing many people to think that all France’s pickpockets are girls of 12 or 14 years. When announcements are made in the subway stations, the travelers look only for the Hamidovic!
“France’s pickpocket situation is under-estimated. I am ashamed for my country when visitors become victims as of their first steps in France. The Hamidovic can become violent. If a person shouts “pickpocket!” they spit. It is dangerous because many claim to have pneumonia.
“The judgment of Fehim Hamidovic did not change the situation of the thefts in the subway. They are still numerous and sometimes violent.”
“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 on break. Eight of the 10 we met in a Paris gang, moments before they returned to work.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.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 gets off at the train’s first stop.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.Befriending the pickpockets has an ulterior motive. We never know where a “friendship” will go.Skipping and singing, the pickpockets lead us out of the subway and into Place Pigalle, a safe place to talk.The youngest pickpocket called for a group photo. They posed and clowned, but none of them took photos of their own.
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.
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, ParisBob Arno recognizes yesterday’s pickpocket and persuades him to join us for dinner.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.
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]
Romanian pickpocket in Romania today. Where will he be tomorrow? Paris? Rome? Madrid?
The pickpocket pair was plain as day to us. And we were just as obvious to them: tourists—by definition, filthy rich and fair game.
One of the two pickpockets who tried to work on Bob ArnoThe Romanian pickpocket tries to work Bob Arno
Romania’s pickpockets are tourists, too. As some of the most traveled of thieves, they’re regularly found plying their ancient trade all across Europe and beyond. They send their earning back to Romania. (Hence their little Romanian shanty towns gone grand.) In our thiefhunting pursuits, Bob Arno and I have met Romanian pickpockets while traveling in Europe top to bottom, east to west, from Sweden to Spain, from England to Estonia, and everywhere in between.
Romanian pickpockets
Bob and I had come to Romania to see Romanian pickpockets on their home turf. It didn’t take long. Two minutes in the city, and there they were. We’d planned to visit Bucharest but learned at the last minute that on this long summer holiday weekend Bucharest would be empty. Everyone who possibly could would be at the beach; and following them would be the pickpockets. So we decided to explore Constanta.
The pickpocket pair laid in waiting on the corner of the pedestrian street. We probably spotted and identified each other at the same instant. For my part, it was easy. If I’d just seen the man’s diagonally-worn messenger bag, I’d give him a suspicious look. Noting the sweater he carried, the man was as good as guilty. After all, it was 80 degrees; yet, the sweater was not folded and forgotten. Rather, it was over his arm, then flourished, fiddled with, and finally folded over his messenger bag. A “tool,” for sure.
Yesterday, we’d met with the city’s pickpocket police officer, a man with 32 years’ experience—rare for the pickpocket detail, who usually move on to more interesting policing. The cop, whose identity I need to conceal, described the local pickpocket techniques.
Romanian pickpocket techniques
“Wrestling” is what he calls the first M.O. The pickpocket approaches his mark straight on with a big smile and familiar greeting. “Remember me, Andrei?” He picks a very common name. While locking eyes and insisting that the two know each other, the thief puts his hands on the mark’s shoulders and shakes him roughly. His partner comes from behind and picks the wallet during the commotion. The thief stops abruptly, apologizes, and departs, while the victim is still rattled, wondering if he really did know the friendly stranger.
“Belt-shake” is method number two. The thief compliments the mark’s shoes and/or clothing, and finally his belt. He shakes the belt and, during the distraction, either snags the vic’s wallet or his partner does.
A poser, early bathers, a stage, and 30 beer stands, ready for the holiday weekend evening on the beach in Constanta, Romania.Constanta beach crowd just getting startedA building in Constanta, RomaniaA grand old house in Constanta, Romania
So Bob and I went for a little stroll in this large Romanian coastal city and almost immediately, there we were, face to face with a pair of Romanian pickpockets in Romania.
With almost no English skills at all, the faux-friendly thief began chatting up Bob while his partner tried to head me into a different direction. “Where you from” is a phrase they both used. Bob’s guy claimed to be a tourist from Bulgaria and asked where the casino was. Then he began to compliment Bob’s clothes.
I had started taking pictures right away. Though the partner tried to distract me, I kept an eye on Bob’s encounter. The perp fingered Bob’s pants with an admiring smile. He ran his hand lightly over the fabric. This is called “fanning,” when a pickpocket tries to establish where the valuables are kept.
Bob maintained a smiley, gentle demeanor, hoping the thief would validate his designation by dipping into his pocket or getting his partner to do so. But something spooked them. Perhaps it was my picture-taking, or perhaps one or both of us didn’t play like regular tourists. In any case, my guy said something to Bob’s guy and pulled back, retreating to pace twitchily in the shadow of a building. His colleague continued to persist with Bob for several minutes longer. He slowly grasped that we weren’t playing our expected roles. Finally he too disappeared down a side street.
Upon seeing these photos, our police contact identified the pickpocket right away by name and said he’d just been let out of jail. Take a good look at him. You may see him next in Paris, Rome, or Barcelona.
Pickpocket partners Tony and Mario as they steal Bob Arno’s wallet
So, we’re standing at a bar near the train station, drinking espresso with pickpockets in Naples (how we got here is described in Part One of this story) right after they stole our wallet. Bob attempts to describe his profession. In a combination of French, English, and a little Italian, he tries to explain that he’s an entertainer, a performer, a stage pickpocket—which leads to…
A Misunderstanding and a Proposition
“First let me explain,” Bob said, “I work in casinos. I do big operations. I also do theaters. I am an artiste.” He looked around for someone wearing a watch. “Let me show you.”
Bob reached a long arm out to a newcomer in the bar and lifted his watch, his customary proof of comradeship.
“Oh, bravo!” Mario and Tony laughed. “He took the bus driver’s watch! Good job, well done.” The driver got his watch back and faded into the background. Is it logical, or odd, that pickpockets and bus drivers hang out at the same bar?
Stealing credit cards
“Me, I steal credit cards,” said Mario. “Visa—wait, wait, listen to this! You speak all these languages. If you work with me we’ll make so much money. I know all the cities. Florence, Venice, Viareggio…. We can work in Rome, Naples…”
Mario clearly did not capish Bob’s explanation about casinos, theaters, and artiste.
“But there’s no money in Naples!” Bob scoffed.
“No, no, here is good! Here I steal credit cards. Then I go to a shop and buy Rolexes. Rolex! You understand? Then I sell them, get money, and I share with my friends.”
Mario was convinced that Bob worked at casinos and theaters as a thief—a real artiste. It was only later that we realized the ambiguity of Bob’s earnest attempt at a job description. Unintentionally reinforcing the error, Bob laughed, bumped into Mario, and lifted the wallet from Mario’s back pocket.
Bob Arno boards a crowded tram in Naples, Italy
“Oh, I see what you do! Multi-bravo!” Mario said, and in Neapolitan explained to the bartender what had happened. “He took my wallet, he’s pretty smart! We came in here to have coffee together.” Mario didn’t mention the other part, that he’d taken Bob’s wallet first. But the bartender probably knew that.
“I have some friends at shops who help with these things. We’d make a good team, you and me. If you work with me, I can give you each a thousand dollars a day!” Yes, each! “Have you been to Ischia? To Capri?”
Mario’s cellphone rang. “Bueno. I’m by the Vesuviana. Okay, I’m coming over there. Ciao.”
Mario and Tony spoke to each other for a moment in Neapolitan, trying to figure out why Bob does this. He does it as a hobby, they concluded, just for fun.
“Madam, you want to try?” Tony offered me a taste of his almond milk, which looked intriguing but, was I going to drink from a stranger’s glass? A known thief? Bob and I were concurrently on the trail of the “yellow bomb,” in which patient thieves in Turkey spike drinks with Nembitol or benzodiazepine, then rob the knocked-out victim.
“No, grazie.” Looking at Tony, I pointed to the t-shirt he had draped over his shoulder satchel. I pointed to the t-shirt and smiled, tapped my head like “I know,” then waggled my finger and shook my head. The international pantomime worked, and Tony laughed. “No good,” he agreed, and stuffed the shirt into the satchel. I hadn’t noticed the hanging shirt when we were on the tram together but, if I had, it would have signaled “pickpocket” in a big way.
“Tomorrow I go to my family,” Mario said. “My wife is in Calabria with the children. I am driving to Calabria this evening to be with them, and I’m coming back tomorrow.”
I tried to picture this bus-working wallet-thief heading off to a seaside vacation.
“Here is my mobile phone number,” Mario said, handing Bob a piece of paper. “Call me. Any day is good.”
“But we’re leaving Napoli,” Bob began.
Mario interrupted. “Listen to me properly. The 18th and 19th of this month I will be in Florence. Florence is very, very good. I know everything about it. I can find out right away if the credit cards are good or not. And you would be a perfect partner because you speak French, English—”
“And I speak German as well,” Bob said. Wait—was he buying into this?
“So you come with your wife and we’re going to take credit cards only for Rolex. We’ll work on the train that goes from Florence to Monaco to Paris.” Mario made a stealthy swiping motion. “There’s a lot of good stuff we can do together.”
“That’s difficult for me.”
A typical coffee bar in Naples
“Listen. I get on the train that goes to these places, Vienna, Florence, Monaco, Paris. I go all day long and I take only credit cards. We make seven- to ten-thousand euros in one day. If you want, tomorrow, call me.”
Omigod. That’s nine- to thirteen-thousand dollars. Now I pictured Mario roaring down the highway in a Ferrari, adoring family eagerly awaiting the hard-working dad at their private summer villa.
“I can’t call you tomorrow, but maybe the day after. We’ll be in Venice for three days.”
“You work in Venice?” Mario looked surprised. “Okay, but you pay attention. Be careful there.”
“Yes, I know,” Bob said. By now it was too much to explain.
“If you do it properly, this is a fabulous job. Especially in Venice.”
“But there’s a vigilante group there.”
“I know, I’ve been there for Carnivale. I know the place.”
We said our good-byes and thanked Mario for the coffee.
“This is Napoli! You are my guest,” he said. Right, the same guest he’d tried to rip off half an hour ago. We ambled back to the buses, the four of us, splitting to opposite ends of the waiting passengers.
Bob and I, a bit stunned, wanted to get on the first bus that came along. As one pulled up and we moved toward the door, Mario shouted from thirty yards away: not that one, next one. Then he and Tony hopped on another and, presumably, went back to work.
Over coffee we had chided and joked with these high-end pickpockets, conversing easily in French. Having accidentally established ourselves as professional colleagues, we rode the misconception to our advantage, encouraging Mario to tell us about his world. As Mario spoke, I recorded him with a visible, hip-held video camera, which I tossed around casually. I was worried about being caught with the camera running. Bob and I were jolly and friendly, belying our nerves and disapproval. Tony was reserved, possibly due to his lack of French. Mario was enthusiastic and embracing, but was he feigning? We thought not.
Naples has a history steeped in crime and a people sincerely warm and jovial. It just might be the thievery capital of the world. I’m not sure, though; there are so many contenders. Myth and history tell us that it’s is the birthplace of pizza, but today this gritty, passionate, mob-infested city is better known for its pickpocketing. Who’s involved? Who lives in the underworld? Who’s on the fringes? It’s impossible for an outsider to know.
“Do you have any books on the Camorra crime family?” Bob asked later in a book shop.
“Camorra! The Camorra is a fantasy,” the shop owner replied dismissively. He was smiling though. In Naples, one only whispers about the Camorra.
Tony laughs nervously on the tram when asked to return Bob’s stolen wallet.
Coffee with Thieves
An August Sunday in Naples. Holiday time for all of Europe and most shops were shut. We bought bus tickets at a kiosk with our last coins, dodged the wild traffic, and crossed to the narrow center strip to wait for a crowded bus. I carried a small video camera in my hands and wore a fanny pack containing my other camera. Bob had a hidden camera, its guts stowed in a shoulder-bag he wore across his chest.
A number one bus arrived, jammed. I didn’t think we’d be able to get on. The doors jerked open and a few passengers tumbled out like crickets escaping from a child’s jar. Bob and I shuffled forward with the mob as the people onboard compacted like empties. We would never voluntarily join such a scene were it not for the call of research. This was highly unpleasant; beyond funny.
“No way. Let’s wait for another,” I said to Bob.
Tony the pickpocket would rather stay on the bus than go for coffee with his victim.
Two clean-cut middle-aged men who’d gotten off the bus were now behind us, corralling the doubtful like sheepdogs. Somehow, with their encouragement, we all got on, filling spaces we hadn’t known existed. The good samaritans kept us from bursting off the bus in the pressure while one yelled “chiude a porta, chiude a porta,” close the door!
My chest was pressed against a vertical pole. A wiry man in front of me had his back to the same pole. Glancing down, I saw his hand behind his back, blindly trying to make sense of the zipper tabs on my fanny pack, which I’d paperclipped together. I watched, half amused, half outraged at his audaciousness.
Pickpockets in Naples, Italy
We’d already made half a dozen or so tram trips that morning and had been pickpocketed on most of them. We hadn’t yet seen the same thieves twice. By now it seemed a certainty: riding a crowded bus or tram in Naples meant intimacy with a thief. Well, let me qualify that to specify buses and trams on lines that tourists might travel; specifically those stopping at the ship and ferry terminal, the archeological museum, and the train stations. Looking at the protective behavior of local passengers, bus-bandits seemed to be an accepted fact of life, as if there’s one in every crowd.
The disembodied hand couldn’t solve the puzzle in its fingertips. It dropped, or crawled away of its own accord. No success, no accusation.
Bob suddenly reached for my camera and held it high above the compressed mob, pointing down.
Pickpocket Mario, Tony’s partner, convinces Tony to go with us for coffee.
“Give back the wallet,” he said quietly. “There’s no money in it.”
“Okay, okay,” said one of the good samaritans. He handed it back with a sheepish grin below ultra-cool wraparound reflective sunglasses. In the video, you can see him lower the wallet to his thigh and check its contents.
“Come talk to us,” Bob said in French as the doors popped open. “Just talk—and coffee.”
“Café? Café?” He raised an invisible little cup to his lips, pinkie outstretched. “Okay.” But when the doors opened there was a cat-and-mouse game as we all four hopped off and on the bus with opposing motives. They were trying to ditch us. Finally Bob and I were on the ground with one of the pair while the other hung in the doorway of the bus, reluctant. “C’mon,” we all yelled to the last guy, and he finally joined us.
The men led us into a bar across the street and as we entered, I realized we had no money with us. Horrified, I pulled the last note from my pocket, not even enough for an inexpensive Italian espresso.
“No problem, you are my guests,” said the Italian who spoke French, with the hospitality of a Neapolitan. He ushered us in with the same warmth and efficiency he’d used to herd us onto the bus. He ordered three coffees, four glasses of water, and one almond milk.
“Bambi and Bob,” we introduced ourselves.
Mario, a high-end pickpocket who steals credit cards on trains to Florence, Paris, Monte Carlo.
“Mario,” said the one who spoke French. He studied us quizzically, as if he’d never been invited for coffee by a man whose wallet he’d just swiped.
“Tony,” said the reluctant other, and we all shook hands.
Mario was trim, 50ish, with smooth skin, curly salt-and-pepper hair, and a receding hairline. He wore a crisp white t-shirt tucked into blue shorts secured with a leather belt. With a watch, gold ring, cellphone, and snazzy shades, this was no lowlife, drugged-up desperado. Mario looked respectable, like anybody’s brother.
Tony was a little rounder, and clearly the junior partner. He squinted under a blue baseball cap, and—did you ever want to know where a pickpocket keeps his wallet?—in the pocket of his blue button-down shirt. It was Tony who’d first tried to take Bob’s wallet on the bus, but Mario who succeeded and slipped it to Tony.
Unlike most of the other cities we’ve visited, pickpockets in Naples are homegrown. They’re not immigrants, handy to take the rap, or despised illegals doing what they can for their very survival. These are Neapolitans practicing an age-old profession without, as far as we can tell, a shred of shame.
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.
This young pickpocket has just returned Bob’s wallet and is now nervous and uncomfortable, trapped on a moving train with her victim.
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.
Two female pickpockets in Rome’s subway. The one wearing a cap later stole Bob’s wallet.
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.
Three of the many pickpockets surrounding us on the subway train in Rome.
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.
“Pudgy” prepares to lean toward his victim, whose wallet he steals. (I know, bad quality photo. It’s a frame-grab from video in a dark area.)
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.
“Pudgy” the pickpocket on the Rome Metro train
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.
Two pickpockets look back at their angry intended victim.
When in Prague, Czech your Wallet
We hit the cobblestones as soon as we had dropped our bags and admired our room in King George’s House hotel, an atmospheric 14th century building in Prague’s Staré Mesto district. The late-summer crowd of budget tourists absorbed us into their mass migration. We surrendered to their pace, joining pudgy, reddened, middle-aged German men in sleeveless t-shirts and Birkenstocks with socks, tattooed skinheads wearing studded collars, and dizzy-eyed long-hairs whose sole employment seemed to be wrapping strands of hair in multi-colored thread.
Since pickpockets operate where tourists congregate, we allowed the happily drifting crowd to sweep us along the narrow lanes. It wasn’t easy to peel our eyes away from the intriguing marionette shops, enticing beer joints, and the renaissance-costumed concert touts. But our mission meant scrutinizing people, not souvenirs and architecture. We disciplined ourselves to study the throng and began to get used to the faces, rhythm, and tempo around us.
When we emerged into a sunny clearing, we found ourselves at the foot of Charles Bridge, a magnet for tourists. The many graceful arches of this medieval bridge step across the broad Vltava River to the Mala Strana area. Mala Strana is a popular pub and restaurant district, and a little further up the hill is Prague Castle. So Charles Bridge is heavy with pedestrian traffic all day and late into the night. Nestled among its 18th century statues, artists and craftsmen ply their wares and musicians play everything from classical to klezmer. The bridge is a destination itself.
Thiefhunting
The two women at left are pickpockets. The two boys at right are their stalls. The woman at center was the intended victim.
We realized at once that the square at the foot of Charles Bridge offered a unique opportunity for pickpockets. A street of wild traffic and speeding trams separates old town from Charles Bridge. Everyone wishing to get from one place to the other must cross the street here at a stoplight. Crowds of a hundred or more people, mostly tourists, quickly accumulate on both sides of the street. Pickpockets have ample time to locate a mark, get in position, and work them while they cross.
Pickpockets in Prague
An affectionate couple on the street corner caught our attention in a big way. When the light changed and the traffic paused, they crossed the busy street among a mob of gawking tourists. But three quarters of the way across the street they abruptly turned and crossed back to where they had begun.
In the “matador” position, the pickpocket (left) slings a coat on her shoulder when she’s ready to work. The coat blocks others from seeing her handiwork.
There they stood, again waiting to cross with the next gathering crowd. The man’s hand casually rested on the woman’s right shoulder. The woman had a blue blazer hanging from her left shoulder. They were better dressed than any of the summer tourists, but somehow didn’t quite look like local business people, either.
The woman sidled up to a man waiting to cross. The light changed. The pedestrians stepped off the curb and surged around the nose of a tram, which had come to a stop in the crossers’ territory.
The man shifted his hand to the woman’s left shoulder, where he anchored her blazer. The woman used her left hand to extend the blazer, completely shielding her work. As we all reached the opposite curb, I fought through the crowd and tried to speak with the elderly gentleman who was the woman’s target.
In Prague at the Charles Bridge crossing, pickpockets block their marks as they cross the street to slow them down.
“Where are you from?” I asked him.
“Greece,” his wife said. The man was old and hard of hearing.
“Does he have his wallet?” I asked.
The wife didn’t understand.
“Portofoli?” I asked, pointing to the old man’s pocket and hoping I remembered the correct Greek word for wallet.
The wife felt her husband’s pocket and looked up at me in alarm. I looked wildly around for the affectionate couple but they were gone. Thinking frantically for the Greek word for pickpocket, I tried Spanish and Italian. Finally, klepsimo. The woman understood, but why not—the wallet was gone. She hurried away from me before I could say anything else, as if I were the thief.
