tourist crime – Pickpocket Bob Arno

Hollywood Attractions, Distractions, and Tourist Crime

hollywood attractions distractions tourist crime

What do thiefhunters on vacation do to unwind from workdays detecting and preventing crimes against world travelers? We grab a cocktail, and hobnob with the stars! Here’s what happens when Bob Arno and I attempt to get away for a day of fun-n-frolic in Tinsel Town, with our California colleague Dave “Wiggy” Wiggins. (Hint: simply flipping off the workaday switch is not that easy.)

The costume-clad and the snake-draped, the card-trickers and drum-beaters, the picture-posers and the star-counterfeiters, all are there to grab a tourist buck or two.

While enjoying the summer season in “The Golden Orange,” Bob and I met up with our colleague Dave Wiggins for a day of sight-seeing in Hollywood. Bob was just coming off his latest star turn on a Steve Harvey show, so Hollywood is nothing new. But rarely do we have the time to be simply tourists on the legendary Hollywood Walk of Fame.

Dave Wiggins, tourism safety specialist

Our companion this day is well-known in California (and Hollywood in particular) as one of the world’s leading experts on crimes against tourists and best practices in visitor venue safety and security. Dave Wiggins is a 27-year veteran (retired) of California law enforcement, with deep expertise in preventing, investigating, and prosecuting tourism related crime. He helped develop a variety of different tourism security and service programs which came to be viewed as national role models.

For years “Wiggy” organized the nation’s largest conference on tourism safety and security matters. Today, he leads the first ever professional association dedicated to advancing the cause of better protecting travelers. As president of the California Tourism Safety & Security Association, he continues to conduct security assessments and training programs for tourism businesses, as well as security and law enforcement teams. He has been accredited by the American Hotel & Lodging Association as a Certified Lodging Security Director (CLSD), and is an expert in hospitality security as well.

As a former security director in Hollywood, Wiggy knows the streets of Tinsel Town better than most. When we meet up in front of the famed Dolby Theater (home to the Academy Awards) the order of the day is simply socializing. Strolling over sidewalk stars and cement foot prints, followed by cocktails at Hollywood & Highland.

I doesn’t take long for Plan A to devolve into a Walk of Fame version of thiefhunting.

Never the shy one, Wiggy strips off his professional clothing right in the busy parking garage. Slacks, buttoned down shirt, and Maui Jim sunglasses are quickly replaced with cheap shades, tacky shorts, and a Hollywood souvenir t-shirt. The transformation is swift and amazing. Wiggy now looks like he just stepped off the bus from Topeka.

Hollywood Walk of Fame

On Hollywood Boulevard, we’re swept up in a swirling sidewalk sea of humanity which rivals New York’s Times Square or the Las Vegas Strip. Millions of visitors every year come to see such landmarks as the Pantages Theater, Madam Tussaud’s Wax Museum, the Chinese Theater, Ripley’s Believe It Or Not, the El Capitan Theater, Fredericks of Hollywood, the Magic Castle, Hollywood Bowl, Capital Records building, Jimmy Kimmel’s television studio, and the famous home of the Oscars.

But what causes these same visitors to trip over their own feet are the cement stars planted into the glimmering sidewalks of Hollywood Boulevard. It was this blocks-long string of inlaid stars that became Hollywood’s first official tourist attraction.

Initiated in the 1950’s, the Walk of Fame today comprises over 2,600 inlaid stars, commemorating a variety of popular performers and entertainment industry leaders.

Wiggy offers us a bit of perspective on the Walk of Fame. “People wanted to come see Hollywood,” he explained, “but the motion picture industry was not a place. The principal studios that make up ‘Hollywood’ were scattered all around, from the Santa Monica mountains to the San Fernando Valley, throughout Hollywood and mid-city areas of Los Angeles. So, creating the Walk of Fame gave a far-flung industry a more centralized attraction for tourists.”

The irony, Bob points out, is that you’ll never see an actual celebrity anywhere along the tourist zone of Hollywood Boulevard. To get a glimpse of living stars in the flesh, you’ll need to slide down to Sunset Boulevard, and head west toward Sunset Plaza.

Sidewalk congestion, attractions, and distractions make an ideal environment for crooks

Nevertheless, a cottage industry of businesses catering solely to tourists has sprung up along the Boulevard. Most recently, a spectacular retail, dining, and entertainment complex has been developed at Hollywood & Highland. A variety of vendors and street performers block the sidewalks with their displays and shows. On a busy summer day, it can be hard to move on the sidewalks, which are even more congested than the area’s infamous freeways. Pedestrians spill into traffic lanes as they navigate the crowds and board buses for tours of the stars’ homes. Pedestrian safety has become a hot button topic.

I pause to admire the stars of Groucho Marx and Tony Curtis. But the boys’ heads spin to gawk at a pair of the street performers nearby, a duo of skin-tight black pleather-wearing Cat Women standing tall in stiletto boots. The male of the human species may be biologically compelled to have a wandering eye, but no one can claim they are especially sly about it!

The curvaceous ladies are in good company. The Boulevard is home to scores of cinematic and cartoony characters. The antics of the many street performers along Hollywood Boulevard serve to satisfy the need of tourists to see Hollywood, while obstructing the already congested sidewalk even more. And as we’re well aware, this clogged sidewalk and its many attractions and distractions make an ideal environment for crooks. Like tourism venues elsewhere, the street performers contribute to a climate of disorder which serves the purposes of opportunistic criminals.

In a flash, Wiggy has Bob posing for a souvenir photo with a lanky Cat Woman. Our R&R is off to a good start, it seems. But just as fast, their pose is suddenly photobombed by Jack Sparrow, Marilyn Monroe, Captain America, and a girl wielding two armfuls of live snakes. Uninvited, they crowd the shot. And once snapped, they all demand payment for the pic.

As Bob notes, street performers and related scams are a common problem at tourism venues around the world. From the Colosseum in Rome, to Fisherman’s Wharf in San Francisco, street performers are notorious not only for creating the conditions which facilitate crimes, but sometimes engaging in crimes themselves.

While Wiggy fends off the spurious claims and hands over two dollars to Cat Woman alone, many tourists are intimidated and end up paying all of the photographic interlopers. It goes on all day, every day, all summer, says Wiggy.

And that’s just the tip of the street disorder in this tourist mecca.

An army of career criminals at tourism destinations across the globe work tirelessly at their nefarious trades to make things even tougher for travelers.

—Dave Wiggins

When Bob turns around to continue our stroll along the Walk of Fame, his trained eye instantly catches two locals, their backs planted against a store wall, one leg cocked up, intently observing preoccupied tourists. These are career criminals who prey specifically on tourists—distraction thieves who take advantage of the built-in madness of a place like Hollywood Boulevard.

Wiggy bumps into a couple of former colleagues and soon Bob is engaged in deep conversation with the local constabulary about current trends impacting tourism. Suddenly our day of leisure is looking like another workday.

To be fair, the issues and problems in Hollywood are no worse than any major tourism destination. But as Wiggy observes, one feature makes Hollywood Boulevard distinct: “Nowhere in the world are more people more focused looking straight down.”

Bob is an expert on how just such distractions facilitate victimization, so this turns into a lively discussion on tourism crime around the globe. So much for a day of R&R.

Such is the life of a thiefhunter on vacation.

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.

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The cozy-up steal

Cargo pockets are easy to steal from. Buttons or Velcro take the thief an extra second or two.

Sandy and Frances thought little of the gaggle of girls who flopped onto the bench they were resting on. There were more girls than could fit on the bench: half a dozen or more. They were pretty, 15-16-year-olds and with them was an adult woman. Their teacher, perhaps, Frances thought.

The girls cozied up to Sandy, making room for one more to squeeze onto the bench. They wiggled and squirmed, like impatient students in class, while the woman spoke to them. Sandy and Frances didn’t understand the language they spoke.

The couple didn’t notice that all the other benches were empty. They didn’t wonder why this gang, or “class,” had to crowd onto their bench. They were not the least suspicious of the girls.

“Why don’t we move so they can all fit,” Sandy said after a couple of minutes. He and Frances settled on the next bench.

“We needn’t have bothered,” he said, watching as the group immediately left the bench and the area.

Londoners Sandy and Frances had just flown into Barcelona to take a cruise. They were too early to board, but it was a gorgeous, sunny afternoon and they didn’t mind waiting the ten minutes before the gangway opened.

Although this cargo pocket has buttons, a hand can slip in between them. And did.

Soon they were in their stateroom, unpacking. Sandy opened a drawer to put away his wallet and, of course, you know: his pocket was empty. He’d had it in the cargo pocket of his pants, “secured” with two buttons. He told us how he went cold all over. How he checked and rechecked his pocket, not believing his wallet was really gone. But from the first instant, he knew exactly what had happened.

Are you groaning? Not another Barcelona story, please! I’m afraid so.

Sandy told us over and over how stupid he felt for letting it happen. There was a lot of money in the wallet, but his insurance would replace it. He just felt like an idiot. Although I’ve never heard of this particular technique, I assured him that this gang was well-practiced in the art of portraying innocence. They knew exactly how to behave, how to avoid rousing suspicion.

The thief hadn’t even unbuttoned the pocket. She didn’t need to. The gap between the two buttons was large enough for a slim hand and a wallet.

They got thousands of British pounds. I don’t think they’ll work for a while. We’re all safe from this gang, at least for the next week or two.

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Barcelona street crime today

Three female thieves with cardboard shields; two thefts from a park; one pigeon poop pickpocket; one postcard technique theft; one very prolific, multi-talented pickpocket; continuous 3-shell, or pea games; and more. No partridge or pear tree.

Bob and I just took three days to re-evaluate the street crime scene in Barcelona. I don’t know why it’s such a contentious topic. Visit any travel forum and you’ll find defenders who say street crime isn’t bad there, that it’s no worse than in any big city, that it’s the stupid tourists’ fault.

Bob and I love Barcelona and believe me, it pains us to say it; but yes, Barcelona is right up there among the cities with the highest rates of theft from tourists. Still. Then and now.

We did not spend every minute of our three days there seeking out thieves. We began by visiting a park with our friend and his children. We did not see the thefts that occurred there just then, but the perpetrator was apprehended, the police were still on site, and Bob spoke with the three victims, two of whom were a young French tourist couple. Their valuables and documents were stolen as they lay dozing, or semi-dozing. The gentleman was alerted when the thief tried to get into his bag, which he was using as a pillow. Must have been a thrill-seeking thief to attempt stealing items from right under a man’s head.

We did not loiter in dark alleys or hang around after hours. We tramped the beaten path. The pigeon poop perp targeted us in the middle of lunch hour on a broad business and shopping street, across from a big hotel. Kharem, whom we’ve found almost every year since 2001, was hard at work with a brand new style on Las Ramblas, Barcelona’s main tourist artery. Same with all the other thieves we came across in these days. If you do stray from the well-worn paths, you’ll find more and different crime, for sure.

We were strolling to our friends’ apartment for dinner, technically off duty with cameras put away, when we saw a young man steal from a restaurant table. We were not looking for crime.

The receptionist in our hotel (which has 90 rooms), said she gets reports of theft from the hotel’s guests about once a week in the summer, but much less during the rest of the year because then guests are mostly Spanish business people who behave differently. The next evening, the receptionist told us that her cell phone had just been stolen from her handbag as she sat in a coffee shop with friends.

A receptionist at another hotel, which was located closer to Las Ramblas, said he gets one or two reports a day from his guests. I don’t know how many rooms that hotel has.

An Australian doctor told us he had just spent six days in Barcelona at a pathology conference. One of his colleagues had her passport stolen and when she went to the embassy, fourteen other conference attendees were there reporting thefts.

Over the next week or so, I’ll be posting details of the above incidents and characters, and more from this research trip. I may not remember to mention what a good time we had in Barcelona, the good meals we had, the beautiful architecture we feasted our eyes on, or the lively ambiance we enjoyed. These are only a few of the delights the city has for tourists to discover. In some way, I’m sorry that my writing focuses on crime. I don’t want to hurt the reputations of cities I love. Neither do I want to scare anyone away from visiting just because there is a relatively high rate of theft.

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Baby thieves

…continuing the story Tourists and thieves: a collision course

ROME POLICE OFFICER CELINI remembered us from previous visits and greeted us warmly. Without asking, he assembled an incident report with carbon paper, in triplicate. I filled out most of the report for Sugohara, and he wrote in his name and address. He had only lost about $100 worth of cash and two credit cards.

We offered to show our video of the crime. Celini first fetched Police Chief Giuseppe D’Emilio. Bob positioned the four-inch monitor of our digital camera and pressed play. The two policemen and Mr. Sugohara put their heads together and peered at the screen as the girl-thieves splashed their faces in the fountain.

“Si,” Chief D’Emilio said tiredly. “We know them. They’re sisters. Maritza and Ravenna.” He and Celini straightened up and turned away from the video. Sugohara still watched with intense interest.

“They have both participated in pickpocketing since before they were born. Their pregnant mother worked the buses. Then, as infants, they were carried in a sling by their mother as she worked these same streets. And when their mother wasn’t using them, one of their aunts would.”

Using children?

Sugohara’s face was close to the screen. He watched intently as the sisters caught up with him so purposefully, arranging their sheet of newspaper and positioning themselves on either side of him. He watched himself leap and skitter backwards.

“The big one, Maritza, she has her own child now,” the police chief continued. “She usually carries her baby all day. A relative must be using the child today.”

Using the child?

Sugohara turned to us, his brow knitted. “Play again,” he demanded.

Bob rewound and Sugohara leaned in. The source of his frustration became apparent. The video showed the moment of contact, but from a distance. Still, that must have been when the wallet was stolen. Then the film showed Sugohara bolting backwards and the girls hurrying away ahead of him and turning the corner. After that, the next full minute was a swinging sidewalk and Bob’s right shoe. Sugohara had hoped to see what the sisters had done with his wallet. But as they hastened along Via Alessandrina, as Bob rushed to catch up with them, as they stowed or stashed or emptied and threw the wallet, the camera filmed only a sea-sickening flow of auto-focused sidewalk. Whatever the girls had done with the wallet was done off the record.

Sugohara watched the useless picture, depressed.

Chief D’Emilio went on. “The only time these kids aren’t stealing is between the ages of seven and eleven, when their parents sometimes let them go to school. Just enough school to learn to read and write, and that’s all.

“I’ve seen them work as young as two years old,” the chief said with eternal amazement. “The father carries the child and gets into a crowd. He leans close to a man. The baby is trained to steal from a man’s inside jacket pocket!” He threw up his hands and exhaled with exasperation. “No wonder we can’t fight this. We have an average of 50 pickpocket reports filed every summer day at this station alone!”

[Note: These photos are not from the book. Neither are they of Maritza and Ravenna. Notice that the girl carries a baby in a sling, as well as a newspaper, which she holds over the pocket or purse she is trying to steal from. Begging is just an excuse to approach marks.]

Excerpt from Travel Advisory: How to Avoid Thefts, Cons, and Street Scams
Chapter One (part-k): High and Dry on the Streets of Elsewhere

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Istanbul pickpockets & Turkish ice cream

Istanbul pickpockets: Entrance to the Grand Bazaar, Istanbul, Turkey. — Entrance to the Grand Bazaar, Istanbul, Turkey.

Turkey Vultures—We’re off duty in Istanbul, so we roam around the Grand Bazaar, buy a shawl, buy a cd, seize photo opportunities. We go out the back of the covered market and I can’t resist buying an ice cream cone and the show that goes with it. I’m delighted, even knowing each move before it happens. The ice cream cart has a row of deep bins, each holding a different flavor of the weird Turkish ice cream.*

Istanbul pickpockets: In Istanbul, a sidewalk vendor works his pink ice cream. — In Istanbul, a sidewalk vendor works his pink ice cream.

To drum up business, the ice cream man bangs his three-foot-long spatula on the bins in a catchy rhythm. then he stabs the pink ice cream and raises it high out of its bin in a solid blob and lets it slowly stretch like pizza dough or silly putty. Turkish ice cream has a consistency completely unlike what we’re used to.

Istanbul pickpockets — Layered with every flavor of chewy ice cream.

I ask for a small cone and the ice cream man goes into high-speed. He scrapes a bit of ice cream from each bin and creates a rainbow stack on the cone, layer by distinct layer. He hands the creation to me and I take the cone—and suddenly it’s just an empty cone in my hand. The laughing ice cream man holds my purchase over his head and makes a face. He takes the empty from me and offers the one I’m drooling for but as I reach for it, he lets it swivel upside down and I grab air.

One more time he offers the cone, and this time I’m left with just the paper wrapper in my hand. As I finally chew my ice cream (yes, it’s chewable stuff), I watch a Canadian woman argue about the price of a cone. After grudgingly paying, she swears the man short-changed her.

Istanbul pickpockets

It’s 6 p.m. Just beyond the ice cream trolley is a major bus stop. Buses pull in and line up in three ever-changing lanes. Bob and I instantly notice a “suspect.” He’s wearing a navy pinstripe suit with a smear of caked mud(?) on the back of the left thigh, and he carries an odd shaped package loosely wrapped in a plastic bag—his tool.

Istanbul pickpockets: "Pinstripe" works while "Teach," in the background, looks into our camera. — "Pinstripe" works while "Teach," in the background, looks into our camera.

Soon enough we identify his buddies. I pretend to take a picture of of Bob while shooting two of the gang behind him. They’re not suspicious of us, and one (in the striped shirt) even steps up beside Bob and smiles at me, as if he wants to be in a picture. (I’ll call him Ham, but I should call him smug.) My damn camera is set on too high a resolution—I can’t snap a second shot because the first is still recording.

Now they perform for us, proving our fine-honed sense of thief detection. But we’re not ready with equipment! In fact, since we hadn’t planned to be on the prowl today, we don’t even have proper equipment. So Bob uses his new tiny camera in video mode, then promptly deletes the half-minute of footage by accident. I take a still shot, but a woman steps in front of the action and blocks the money-shot. We both get mediocre stills.

Istanbul pickpockets: A pickpocket in Istanbul works passengers as they board the bus. — A pickpocket in Istanbul works passengers as they board the bus.

The pickpockets, of course, don’t get on the bus. Pinstripe hasn’t seen us, but another one has. He’s nice and clean-cut-looking, despite his three-day whiskers. He looks like a high-school history teacher. After blatantly photographing him, Bob approaches and offers his hand. We have no common language at all, but that doesn’t keep us from trying. We pull him aside and Bob lays some moves on him, borrowing his tool for cover. Teach breaks into a huge grin, but what does he think? That Bob is a pickpocket, or just that we caught him out, wink wink. He can’t know, and wants to get away, wants to get back to work. As if greeting a long lost confederate—or by way of desperate farewell—he kisses Bob roughly on both cheeks, then me, then Bob again, then me again. Bob is convinced it’s a sign of respect.

Istanbul pickpockets: With no common language, Bob Arno's interrogation of this pickpocket in Istanbul did not go far. — With no common language, Bob Arno's interrogation of this pickpocket in Istanbul did not go far.

Teach takes off, but Pinstripe doggedly continues, working the boarding passengers of one bus after another. All the thieves we observe here seem to work alone, even though they may be beside a colleague. During the 90 minutes we skulked about the bus stop, we observed about 20 suspects. Were there more?

Istanbul pickpockets: The main drag in the "modern" part of Istanbul. Crowded day and night... but especially at night. — The main drag in the "modern" part of Istanbul. Crowded day and night... but especially at night.

At 11 p.m. we wander up the hill to Istiklal Caddesi, the main drag in Beyoglu on the “modern side” of Istanbul. It’s still Europe, but on the other side of the Golden Horn. We talk about sitting down for a glass of wine or finding a sweet shop for some gooey Turkish desserts and tea. The street is jammed with pedestrians, and police cars are strategically parked at several intersections. I spot a suspicious character loitering around the atm, but Bob pooh-poohs my inkling. He pops into a deafening music shop to buy some new age Turkish funk while I, repelled by the volume, wait in the street and watch the people-parade.

Istanbul pickpockets: The pickpocket we called "34," working in Istanbul at midnight. — The pickpocket we called "34," working in Istanbul at midnight.

By now it’s past midnight but despite being in r&r mode, my thiefometer kicks in. I can’t help staking out the lowlife who leans against the wall, clearly lurking, holding a sweater (tool) over his arm like half the other people on the street, but in that way.

Finally he lurches into the crowd and I see that (a), he’s got a limp, and (b), he’s onto a woman with a low purse. No surprise. I follow him until he gives up on the purse and leans against another wall. I dash into the cd store and pull Bob out. We easily locate the limper again, but soon lose him in the swirl of people. His shirt front identifies him as “34.” From the back he’s all gray, but his orange sleeve beckons like a beacon, and so does his bobbing head. Mostly though, this guy just leans and lies low. We watch him make a few more half-hearted attempts just to prove to ourselves that he is what we know he is, then Bob decides to enlist a translator.

Istanbul pickpockets: A pickpocket in Istanbul, found working late at night. — A pickpocket in Istanbul, found working late at night.

He returns dragging a plainclothes security guard from the music shop.

Surprisingly, the limping pickpocket didn’t put up any resistance or hesitate to answer our questions. And although our translator required serious cajoling to enlist, he gets into the moment. “34” is a Kurd, not married, and has been picking pockets for 20 years. He claims to be the best operator on this street, and says it is his main territory. His leg was injured when he was a child. Bob notices how delicate his fingers are, how clean, how perfectly manicured the nails.

To demonstrate a move, Bob wants to borrow 34’s sweater to use as a cover. Like most criminal thieves, Bob simply can’t steal barehanded. At first, 34 was reluctant to release his sweater. But when Bob got into position behind the translator, 34 swiftly arranged himself in front of the translator and fell slightly back into him. Bob slipped out the translator’s wallet as if he and 34 had been partners for decades.

We ask how many others work this street, and 34 says there is a woman, and some children. This street is easy, he says. How often do you succeed in getting money, Bob asks. Every time, he lies. He repeatedly presses his hands to his nose, which is red and swollen. His cheeks are scraped and he might have the beginning of a black eye. Bob asks how he hurt his face. Three hours ago, he claims, he tried to break up a fight between some friends of his.

Yeah, right. We can think of a more likely scenario.

*Turkish ice cream is thick and chewy, totally different from “our” ice cream, but delicious. It’s thickened with salep, the dried powder of a wild orchid now endangered.

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