Pickpocket paradise, but still requires nerve and patience
Luciano’s morning hit was tense. He had ridden the trams during what should have been rush-hour, but for the relative desertion of the business world. The city was shut, shop fronts literally shuttered and padlocked for the summer holidays. Luciano had tried and failed four times that first hour, backing off each attempt at the last second. Once the tram lurched and he bumped clumsily into his mark, and once he thought he was noticed by someone sitting nearby. The other two efforts just weren’t right—he couldn’t get the right angle.
Who are the pickpockets? Waiting to board on a blistering day.Pickpocket paradise: a tram packed to bursting, thieves squashed against victims
Pickpocket Paradise
Finally, he got close to a businessman in a sport coat. It was one of the last crowded trams of the morning. The mark was hanging onto a ceiling strap with one hand and trying to read a folded newspaper in his other. His jacket was hanging open. Luciano, hating face-to-face work, broke into a sweat. He used a floppy leather portfolio to shield his hand as he slid it against the breast pocket, where he’d seen the weight of a wallet.
His partner Stefano was so close Luciano could smell the espresso on the blocker’s breath. Yet, they never looked at one another. Luciano willed his hand to be steady and light. He willed the mark to keep reading. He hoped the leather [wallet] wouldn’t snag on a fold of fabric.
Pinching the wallet between his middle fingertip and the nail of his first finger, he slipped it out. It was a smooth move—textbook. He slid it down to thigh level along with his brown portfolio, and Stefano’s hand was ready as if by instinct. Stefano then plunged the wallet into his own deep pants pocket, and covered the bulge with a plastic grocery bag. At the next corner he stepped off the tram before it even stopped. Luciano stayed on two blocks longer, heart pounding, then got off and met Stefano midway, as usual.
Stefano had already dumped the leather. They split the proceeds equally.
“Why should the blocker get an equal share?” we had asked Luciano. “The skill is yours. The pressure is on you.”
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.
The moments you’re boarding public transportation are your riskiest in the world of pickpocketry. A pickpocket in Athens shows us just how slick, and how fast, he can get your wallet.
Victim accuses pickpocket on train in Athens.
Here’s a pickpocket technique we saw but didn’t see. We were riding the green line in sweltering Athens. A woman in a yellow shirt and her male pal were already on the train when Bob and I boarded. They moved aside, making it easier for us to get on, then sandwiched Bob, separating me away. The male wore a t-shirt which proclaimed “generation (picture of a dog) free.” He pressed a flaccid shoulder-bag against Bob’s pants pocket while his partner tried to get Bob’s prop wallet.
“That was good,” Bob said to me in Swedish, our code-speak, because we assume few people understand it. “She tried but didn’t get it.” Probably because Bob’s pocket was pretty deep. We don’t want to make it too easy for them.
A pickpocket in Athens
Giving up, Dog Free hung his bag on his shoulder and inched away innocently, riding in sweaty silence. As the train approached Omonia station, he readied himself for another attempt.
A Greek gentleman boarded. Yellow and Dog Free, still on the train, blocked his way.
Pickpocket’s accomplice.
“Excuse me,” the Greek man said. “Let me get by.”
Yellow and Dog Free slid around behind him. Yellow flashed a flat parcel down low. Amid the confusion, I saw a hand briefly grip a pocket. In the swirl of people, I couldn’t identify whose hand it was, or even whose pocket. I was holding a camera low, blindly aiming at the known thief’s hands. Bob held his camera near the ceiling, pointing down.
The train hadn’t left yet. Dog Free pushed himself through the crowd with Yellow close behind. He stepped off the train, but the Greek was quick. He grabbed Dog Free’s wrist, pulling him back onto the train. Yellow walked.
“Come here!” the victim said in Greek.
“What do you want, mister?”
“You took my wallet!”
“What did I take?” Dog Free said. “You’re out of your mind. Search me! Look, look!”
The victim groped desperately in his empty pocket and released Dog Free. The thief left, the doors slammed shut, and the train departed.
Victim accuses pickpocket, while accomplice (in yellow) slips away—probably with the victim’s wallet.
“Did he get your wallet?” we asked. “Portofoli?”
“Yes, he got it. I wasn’t sure if it was him or not, not a hundred percent.”
We asked the victim if he’d like us to go to the police with him, that we thought we might have the steal on film, and we certainly had the faces of the thieves. But no, he didn’t want to.
“He didn’t get a lot of money. I had only 20 euros.” (About $27.)
“What did he say?”
“He said he didn’t do it.” The Greek threw up his hands.
Sweaty and spent, we retreated to a shady streetside café in the Plaka to have a light lunch and review our footage. Over tzadziki and flat bread and cold fried eggplant, we unwound, cooled off, and rewound our cameras. Hunched over our tiny screens, we scrutinized the video.
Everything was there: Yellow, and Dog Free, the Greek victim boarding. You can’t take for granted that it will be, when shooting from the hip. And we make plenty of camera mistakes in moments of high tension or excitement. We pressed play on the other camera. Sipping retsina, we held our breath through shaky minutes of feet, unidentifiable body parts, then noisy confusion.
From video shot in low light, fast motion, shot from the hip. But we got the pickpocket’s hand in the victim’s pocket.
Pickpocket in Athens “kicks the poke”
And there it was, clear and close up. It took exactly a second and a half. Yellow positioned a flat parcel as a shield while Dog Free used both hands on the right front pants pocket of the Greek. His right hand pushed the wallet up from the outside of the fabric while his left reached only an inch into the pocket.
This is a technique dips call “kick the poke.” They raise it from the depths, or turn it into a better position for lifting. Dog Free neatly clipped the raised wallet between two fingers and let the Greek simply walk away from it. It happened so fast we didn’t see it—but our camera did.
What we can’t see, but most certainly happened, is Dog Free’s pass to Yellow. Dog Free pulled up his shirt and invited a search because he was clean: he’d given the wallet to Yellow, who escaped.
We call Dog Free’s special technique finesse. Thieves who use it have an edge, but they can be bested. They’re still opportunists. And we don’t have to give them the opportunity. We just need to be aware that they have tricks and techniques most of us wouldn’t dream of.
Almost all of the opportunist pickpocket’s dirty work is preventable. I agree, it’s not practical to live in preparation for the worst at any moment. Bob and I say, practice safety as a habit. Stash your valuables wisely, and try not to send signals that you’re worth a thief’s effort. Other, easier targets will always be there to tempt the opportunist. Don’t make him even glance at you. We say, forget the flashy jewelry when you’re out and about.
Fake jewelry doesn’t thwart pickpockets
“But this is a fake Rolex,” some say smugly. “I paid $20 for it in Miami.” No comment on the purchase of counterfeit goods, but do you really want to be mugged for a fake Rolex? Do you believe a criminal can tell the difference? Not even in Naples, where Rolex-robbing is as common as running red lights, can a thief tell before he’s got it.
“These are CZs,” women tell me, tugging on glittery boulders in their earlobes. “It won’t break me if I lose them.” Listen: losing the earrings is not the point. You’re sending a signal to anyone who cares to pay attention: “Look at me! Notice my wealth!” The one who tunes in may or may not want those CZs; he may decide to linger and observe and find your Achilles’ heel, the chink in your armor. It’s not coincidence when a bag is snatched in the one moment you look away. You’ve been stalked. Why? You are attractive. You are wealth.
Yes, you’ll look like a tourist
If you are a tourist, chances are you look like one. That’s not a put-down. We can’t possibly look like a local wherever we are [despite all the “experts” exhorting us to]. We don’t dress, act, or sound like the natives, even within regions of the United States. I’ll never forget the time Bob and I came back to the States after six months in Sweden.
MY take on a “dippie.” Nothing like the Orwigsburg version.
We flew straight to Orwigsburg, Pennsylvania, to do a private show. I had never felt like such an alien as I did in that town; and that thought had solidified long before a roadside breakfast at the “Family 3C’s” diner, where the perky little waitress asked “Where are you guys from?” with the unsaid ending: “space?” Was it because I asked for the definition of a “dippie,” a menu item with no description?
The big boss of our Orwigsburg client had described his employees, his “boys,” as backward and painfully shy. He said we’d think they seemed dumb, ignorant, but that they’re highly skilled at their individual jobs, good workers, loyal. At the party, Bob and I looked at all these beefy boys with their hefty wives, trying to figure out their lives and values. They didn’t look dumb; they looked innocent and close to the earth and less worldly than anyone we’d encountered in many years. Perhaps since we met the Masaai….
The event was held in a dismal lounge at a Quality Hotel. The pitiful effort at decorating (helium balloons rubbing against the low ceiling) matched the pathetic catering (macaroni salad, bbq chicken). This was the big party of their year! To be fair, I must add that the boss’s warmth and generosity toward them (and us) was impressive.
Culturally speaking, this was as fascinating an experience as any other exotic destination we’d visited. And on the positive side, we spoke the language. Somewhat, anyway. As always, I tried to pick up a little, so I can now order a “dippie” and expect an egg. But what would the Orwigsburgers think about being considered exotic, a fascinating study? I suspect we and the natives examined each other with the same dubious skepticism and sideways looks, like two isolated cats meeting for the first time.
Anyway, there we were in our own America and no doubt stuck out like two city-slickers in a dairy barn, similar to the time I showed up in Boyd, Texas for a show wearing New York black instead of dirty denim. Who knew? We didn’t mean to stand out—we just did.
The point is, most travelers can be seen as travelers, and a traveler is at a disadvantage. When we travel, we’re the foreigners. We’re outsiders, even if we don’t realize it. We don’t have street smarts, even if we do at home.
Dress down
Bob and I say, prepare yourself in advance. Travel light in order to travel confidently. Leave your shiny sparklers at home. On the road, lock up what you love. On your body, tuck them in. The idea is to enjoy your journey without worry.
A thief needs only a few seconds to assume ownership of unattended riches. Those few seconds are easily found when a woman leaves her handbag in a shopping cart or baby stroller. In the time it takes to select a ripe avocado, the bag is gone and out the door.
Don’t let go of your purse!
Joyce Lerner of Miami Beach had her wallet filched from her purse while shopping in her neighborhood supermarket. It was half an hour before she got to the checkstand and realized it—an obvious window of opportunity for the thief to use her credit cards. When she reported the incident, police told her they were well-aware of gangs that came to Miami Beach every winter and worked many different supermarkets.
Shoe stores in strip malls along the Las Vegas Strip are prime locales for larcenists looking for ignored bags. In fact shoe shops everywhere beckon to the opportunist. Shoe shopping is serious business, I know, and requires intense focus. Selecting, fitting, walking across the shop, admiring, and—where’s your purse?
And, victims tell me that beauty and nail salons are targeted by thieves. Some women become relaxed and distracted, and neglect their belongings inside, or leave their purses in their cars so they won’t ruin their newly done nails. Leave it to an opportunist to exploit a loophole.
Pickpockets, thieves, and con artists aren’t to be blamed for all losses. When you travel, don’t rip yourself off due to ignorance or naiveté.
So you’ve done your research, studied up on foreign currency, and made the long-awaited journey to elsewhere. After touchdown, you trudge through immigration with no surprises. You have whatever visas are required, perhaps your yellow immunization card, onwards tickets, proof of transfer tax or visa fees paid, whatever foreign officials can throw at you. Now you need a taxi.
Who knows if you’ll find an organized taxi queue or a pack of hustlers? Chances are, your research has suggested that you only use official taxis and agree on a rate before stepping in. Taxis can be a traveler’s first rip-off. Try to get a vague idea of what the charge should be, airport to hotel. Your hotel may be able to tell you via email before you leave home, or your travel agent; at the least, ask at an information booth in the airport when you arrive. Still, you can’t always protect yourself from unscrupulous practices.
For example: the tired traveler flies into flower-filled Changi Airport and instantly feels at ease. It’s neat, clean, functional, and aesthetic. Rules are adhered to in Singapore. The streets are as safe to walk as the tap water is to drink. What sort of thief can operate in such an ostensive utopia?
The traveler collects his luggage and changes a little money at the airport booth, then jumps into a taxi to his hotel. “Fifteen dollars,” the driver might say as he pulls up to Raffles or the Regent or the Mandarin; and in most cases, the visitor pays and that is that.
Many American tourists’ first sense of Singapore is not at all that of an exotic Oriental land, but rather, that the place resembles the modern city in which they live. Therefore, a surprising number of American tourists happily, ignorantly, accidentally pay their taxi fare in U.S. dollars. What taxi driver will refuse an instant bonus of thirty percent? That tourist has been self-ripped, so to say, and the driver is hardly to blame.
More cunning, though, is the driver or shop clerk who recognizes your naiveté and slips some worthless or worth-less money into your change. This happened to me once in Singapore. A taxi driver put a few Malaysian bills into the stack of Singapore bills he gave me as change. The pink Malaysian bills look remarkably similar to the pink Singaporean ten-dollar notes. So similar, in fact, that the passing of them could have been just an accident. But the ten-ringgit Malaysian notes were worth less than half the value of the Singaporean tens.
Other self-rips include pavement wagers, which I’ll discuss later. These include the three-shell game and three-card-monte. Like casino games, you bet against a house advantage. Unlike casino games, you cannot win.
I’ve already described a prevalent, greed-based self-rip called the bait-and-switch scam. This one occurs when you’re offered a deal too good to be true, a camera, for example, at such an irresistible price. You think it might be stolen, but that’s a detail you just don’t want to know. You test and scrutinize the item, you hem and haw, you buy it, and you get self-ripped. Read more on bait-and-switch.
What about tipping policies—are you prepared? Do taxis and waiters expect a hefty twenty percent? Do locals simply round up to the whole number? Are tips considered an insult? Are they included in the bill? Are they included in the bill with a blank total on the credit card slip, encouraging you to not notice and add more (or, to be fair, allowing you to lessen the included tip)? Tipping ignorance may lead you to self-rips. The State Department travel site won’t help you here, but internet research, travel guidebooks, and some great apps will.
Get out and travel! Explore our fascinating world…
Bob Arno and I are travel enthusiasts. We adore the variety of London one day, the next Johannesburg, Mumbai, New York, Florence, Sydney, Cairo, Buenos Aires… all in a year’s work. The last thing we want is to frighten travelers.
We believe that awareness and forewarning put a serious dent in the number of needless thefts that occur. One wallet stolen: it’s a small crime, not devastating, and its likelihood and consequences do not spontaneously occur to people traveling to unfamiliar destinations for business or pleasure. Since the threat never enters their minds, they are not prepared to protect themselves.
Yet, the after-effect is annoying at the least, troublesome and humiliating at worst, with the added potential of identity theft, which begins with stolen information.
Bob and I say awareness is your best weapon. We say do your research, raise your antennas, and go forth: explore and savor the natural and cultural differences that make each country and city unique. Rejoice in your fortune to be able to travel. Bon voyage and travel safe!
How a pickpocket steals from a jacket hung on the back of a restaurant chair.
A strategist thief is one who creates his own opportunity, one who operates on a specific plan, one who steals with malice aforethought. The lowest strata of these are not much more than glorified opportunists. To me, though (and these are my definitions), an opportunist with a clever enough scheme gets a strategist rating.
Take Yacine, a north African illegal immigrant thief who works in Athens, Greece.
“I have a favorite technique to use in restaurants,” he told us, “but it only works in winter, when men hang their jackets on the backs of their chairs. I could show you, but I don’t have a jacket, and you don’t have a jacket. No one has a jacket in Athens in the summer.” He hunched his shoulders, raised his palms.
“We’ll go buy one,” Bob Arno said, and we had Yacine lead us to a men’s shop. There followed a hilarious scene in which a pickpocket selects a sport coat based on an analysis of its array of pockets. When a suitable jacket was purchased, Yacine chose a quiet café for our demonstration. Two of his colleagues joined us for lunch first, during which a cell phone rang.
Harik, 28, illegally visiting from Albania, pulled a phone out of his pocket and put it on the table. Then another, and another. He had half a dozen cell phones on the table before he found the ringing one. It had been a lucrative morning for Harik. He opened the back of the phone and pulled out its SIM card. The ringing stopped. Harik tore the tiny chip into shreds.
(An aside: want to buy a cell phone in Athens? Hundreds of men stand packed in a pedestrian shopping lane in the Plaka area, each displaying a phone or two. If you show interest in a man’s wares, he’ll pull from his pockets his other offerings, up to a dozen phones.)
“The new jacket is yours, but I need a jacket also, for this method,” Yacine said as he set the scene. “I’ll use a shirt for the demonstration.”
Pickpocket steals from jacket on cafe chair
He arranged Bob and me in bentwood chairs at a café table and ordered Greek coffee for us. He settled himself at the next table. Then, back to back with Bob, hand behind his back but hidden between the jackets, he snagged the wallet. I was facing him and saw nothing suspicious.
“You be the victim, Bob. Here’s the jacket. Put some euros in your wallet, empty is no good. Now put it in the new jacket. I don’t care which pocket! That is never something I decide. Now hang the jacket on the back of your chair. Perfect. Now, please. Have a seat. Drink your coffee.
“I will take the seat behind you so we are back to back. I have this shirt in my backpack, which I can use to simulate a jacket. I’ll hang it on the back of my chair. Now Bob, here is the secret: I will readjust the chairs so they are not exactly back to back. I’ll slide mine a little left or a little right. It doesn’t matter which way.
“Look now. I’m sitting right behind you. Our jackets are back to back on our chairs. I just slip my hand behind me and into your jacket. I don’t turn around. I can feel the pockets and quickly remove the wallet. See?
Cash is stolen from a wallet in a jacket pocket, without removing the wallet.
“You think that’s good? Thank you. Put the wallet back and I’ll show you something better. This is my best take. I will get the money only. I will not take the wallet. Just the money from it. It’s the same technique, but it takes a few seconds longer. Look now, I’ve got it!
“When I do this, the man never even knows. He thinks he spent the money somewhere. Very good, no?”
Yacine is an opportunist because he needs a fool for a mark, someone who’s left himself open. But he works with a strategy that gives him an advantage over the ordinary opportunist, so he has a wider field of potential victims. He’s more dangerous than his lesser fellows because he succeeds within the perceived shelter of upscale commercial establishments. He also has grander conceits. Yacine’s ultimate goal is America.
Does a pickpocket keep his appointments? Bob and I loitered on a corner with our interpreter. We were a unanimously doubtful trio already considering alternative plans for the day.
We’d found Kharem a week ago, almost a year after we first met him.
“Kharem!” I’d said, and his jaw dropped.
“Nice lady. You remember my name. I am honored.” He swept his thumbtip against his forehead, fingers fisted, in a quick, subtle gesture.
Heart of a Thief
Absolutely punctual, Kharem approached now with a smile and the thumbthing, that curious salute of his. He was immaculately dressed in a short-sleeved button-down shirt, white pants, suede loafers, and the inevitable tool over his arm: the jacket. We introduced him to our friend Ana, our interpreter for the day, and teased him about his punctuality.
“I wasn’t working today; I came straight from home. That’s why.”
We settled around the same table we used the week before and reminded ourselves and Ana to keep our voices down.
“What happens when you’re caught, Kharem?”
“When I’m caught, the police usually beat me up and take my money. It’s not bad because I won’t have to go to jail. Jail is like death. One hour of being there and I feel dead.” He signaled for a waiter.
“How long have you spent in jail?”
“Many times.”
“But how much time altogether?”
Kharem smiled with his mouth but not his eyes. He raised both index fingers and gestured as if conducting an orchestra.
“He won’t say,” said Ana. “I think he means let’s move on to something else.”
“Do you think the police recognize your face?”
“Yes, they do. But they know I never hurt any one. My crime is small. I’m not getting millions of euros. I’m not rich. I don’t have a drug habit to support…” He went on in Arabic-tinged Spanish.
“He seems to feel almost justified in what he’s doing,” Ana said, amazed. “He’s talking about the police who take his money, the politicians who get away with so much and never go to jail. And other financial… what do you call it?”
“White collar crime?”
“Yes, and that he never hurts people.”
Our drinks arrived: espresso for Bob and me, a beer for Kharem, a soda for Ana. Kharem passed the sugar and distributed napkins to each of us from an overpacked dispenser.
“How are you treated in jail?”
“It’s not pleasant. Look at my finger.” Kharem showed the mangled third finger of his right hand. “A guard did this to me. He handed me some papers and when I reached for them, he slammed shut the cell door. It was clearly intentional.”
He brightened. “Last Sunday, after we parted, I got a wallet with 1,000 euros. I used the postcards to do it.”
“Ah, no wonder you’re not working today. You took the whole week off!” I joked.
“No, I used that money to pay some fines. When I’ve paid them all, my record will be clear.”
“Do you save any money?”
“No. When I get enough, I pay my fines.”
“How will you ever get ahead?” Bob asked. “What about your future? What will you do when you’re old?”
“Who knows about the future. No one knows what will be tomorrow, anything could happen.” He reached to move a strand of windblown hair from my face, a gesture I found overly familiar, almost forward. “I live only for today. I live like a bird.” Thumb salute. “I am free.”
“What is this thing you do with your thumb?” I asked, copying the move.
“It means ‘good.’”
“I’ve never seen it before. Is it Algerian? Or Lebanese?”
“Combination,” he said dismissively, so I gave up.
“Did you go to school?”
“I can read and I can write. What more do I need of education?”
“What do you do when you’re not working,” I asked. “Do you have a passion for something?”
“I write poetry.”
“What about?”
“Freedom. Love. Family. Living like a bird.”
“Will you recite one for us?”
“They are in Arabic. I cannot.”
“Do you have family here in Barcelona?”
“No, I have no one. I have no friends. I am not allowed in France, where my daughter is. I haven’t seen my mother and father in 17 years and my brothers are dead. These are the people I love. If I cannot see my family, why should I see anyone? They are my friends. They are the ones I love.”
He did the thumbthing and smiled with his mouth but not his eyes.
La Rambla, Barcelona—On observing the behavior of someone like Plaid, we label him a suspect. We follow and film, yet we can’t be certain he’s a thief.
“He could be a pervert,” police have told us. “Watch his eyes.” Plaid’s eyes said wallet. His furtive fingers opening buttons said pickpocket. We stayed glued to his back until he gave up.
“Let’s go talk to him.” Bob was already trotting toward him. I had to run to catch up.
“Scuza,” Bob called, “por favor…” He was mixing up his languages in the excitement.
Plaid stopped and bestowed an empty grin on us.
“Do you speak English?”
“No, no English. I speak French. And I speak Algerian.” Plaid held up his hands as if he were off the hook and turned to continue on his way.
“En francaise, c’est bien,” Bob said, dredging up his French. “We want to talk to you.” He tossed the video camera to me.
“Okay, nice to meet you.” Plaid offered his hand. Bob shook it without hesitation, neatly stealing Plaid’s watch at the same time. I was still fumbling with the camera so half the watch steal was filmed upside down.
“We’d like to ask you some questions.” Bob dangled the watch in front of Plaid, who glanced at his naked wrist then back to Bob. He broke into a bewildered smile.
“That’s superb. Please…”
Bob will often steal something from a thief then return it for a reaction. His unique talent instantly establishes rapport with an outlaw and, more often then not, they’ll talk to us.
Plaid, an opportunist pickpocket whose method is stealth, is a lone wolf. He works solo, without a partner. His neat clothes and haircut, decent shoes, and polite manner are calculated to blend into a crowd. He’s a chameleon. We call him a gentleman thief, a type almost impossible to detect.
“I want you to explain for me—”
“Why me?”
“Because we have watched you work.” Bob tried to explain that he is an “artiste,” a stage performer, but Plaid couldn’t grasp the concept of stealing as entertainment.
“Please, don’t tell anyone what I do. I know this is bad work. You know, this is Spain, and there is no job for me. I have no papers… that’s why I’m doing this. Because I have a child to feed. See, I have reasons to steal, because I need to feed my baby.”
He tried to give Bob a little advice, one pickpocket pal to another. “Use your brain, be smart. You don’t need violence. Use your mind.”
The pickpocket took a few steps backwards, itchy to make his escape. “You need patience to do this. Now I must go. Let me say good-bye.”
And the gentleman thief was gone, an invisible germ in an oblivious crowd.
La Rambla, Barcelona—On one crowded summer Sunday, Bob and I patrolled the perimeters of the street performers’ audiences. Of all the thieves and con men we watched that day, and there were many, “Plaid Shirt” was the slickest. I locked onto him because of his smile.
A Spanish folksinger had attracted an audience of hundreds. Backpackers were camped long-term on the ground, and people stood four and five deep behind them in a giant circle, enjoying the free concert.
An opportunist pickpocket
Plaid Shirt was neatly dressed and I almost eliminated him on the basis of the thick wallet in his back pocket. His gray plaid shirt tucked into dark blue jeans did not grab my attention. The windbreaker he carried over his arm was a tip-off, but not a dead giveaway. I had considered a sweater myself that morning, and wished for one in the evening.
Can you identify the pickpocket in the crowd?
What raised my antennas was his behavior. Plaid Shirt sidled up close into the back of the attentive audience. After a minute, a man beside him turned and glared at him. My suspect smiled in response and took half a step back. But that smile! It was the paradigm of shit-eating grin.
Plaid Shirt, the opportunist pickpocket, slowly and calmly relocated, pressing himself into another section of the crowd. He did this repeatedly, never staying more than two minutes in one spot. I tagged onto him, stepping right in behind or beside him. Whenever he turned to leave, I swiveled away or moved in the opposite direction.
Later Bob joined me with his camera. Plaid continued his pattern of getting close, then backing off. When he was glared at, he proffered his cat-ate-canary grin; but more often he was not noticed at all.
Round and round the periphery we went. After Bob got some footage of Plaid, I moved even closer and learned his secret specialty. With absolute stealth and fingers like feathers, Plaid lifted the flaps on men’s cargo pockets—those low-down side pants pockets—and unbuttoned them. Despite his use of a jacket for cover, I saw him unbutton three cargo pockets and one hip pocket, on four men. He probably opened many others I couldn’t see.
I did not, however, see him steal any wallets.
Why did he leave each mark after only opening the button? Did he sense the men had felt him? Was he just setting up for a later approach? Most of his targets seemed not to have sensed anything amiss.
Amazed that he hadn’t wisened to me, I began to think of Plaid as a hapless fool. We’d circled and circled the audience together, moving in, pausing, moving on. For forty-five minutes I followed the pickpocket’s balding head while he failed to notice me. With my bright white dress and big curly hair, it’s not as if I were totally inconspicuous. If he’d gotten anything, he would have left, at least long enough to dump the leather.
Meanwhile, Bob dared not get close, although he may as well have. Plaid was concentrating so intently he wouldn’t even have noticed a six-foot-five videographer hovering over him. But Bob hung back while Plaid and I traced a flower-petal design around the hand-clapping fans, curving in and out at irregular intervals.
Plaid moved in behind a man with a child balanced on his shoulders. The man swayed gently with the music and the child tapped her thigh. Plaid lowered his jacket and positioned his body, attempting to block sight lines. I snuck in closer, in time to watch Plaid lift the flap of the father’s cargo pocket, and slowly open the button. I motioned for Bob to come near. This was a good opportunity with enough of a view.
Plaid worked meticulously. Stealth was his main operative, with nerve and patience tied for second and a goofy smile his ace in the hole. He kept his face forward and head straight; only his eyes flicked down now and then. Father and child were oblivious. The music swelled.
Plaid took a half step away. No reaction from the mark. He moved back in and lowered his jacket again. Bob slipped up behind me and I edged away, letting him have the sightline. In the background now, I went crazy not knowing. Was Plaid extracting the wallet? Was Bob getting it on camera? What would we do afterward: alert the father or try to talk to Plaid? I crept up, trying to see.
Interruption!—
Have I described La Rambla’s comical chair patrolman? He controls the rows of chairs on the upper end of the boulevard, collecting a few coins for the privilege of resting tired feet in prime people-watching seats. With his many-pocketed vest, visor cap, and change-purse at his waist, he looks like a circus clown’s imitation of a policeman. For years we’ve seen him waddling around his territory, a stern eye on his lucrative concession, quasi-defender of all he surveys.
—A shrill whistle blew, not far from our ears.
The superintendent of chairs marched toward us, pointing.
“Pick-pock-et!” he said, the whistle dropping from his mouth to his chest. “Attencione!”
The concert continued. The father and child still swayed to the music. Only three people reacted to the pretender-officer’s accusation, and we three rearranged ourselves into an eccentric perimeter parade.
Plaid beat it around the circle and we followed. He still didn’t seem to be aware of us, the witless dolt. Like Plaid, I dodged cars in the street where the crowd stretched to the curb, but Bob was slower with a heavy camera-bag on his shoulder. I waited for him, keeping an eye on Plaid who had abandoned the game and now stood at a closed lotto booth.
What was he doing there? He was facing an inward corner, a niche in the wall of the kiosk, very close, but looking away, toward me. He was doing something with his hands. I stared at him, not worried now about being noticed. As before, Plaid looked innocently away from his busy hands.
Bob reached me. “Where is he?”
“One o’clock. At the kiosk. I bet he’s dumping a wallet!”
Plaid finished and strode away. I ran to the kiosk and, raising my sunglasses, peered closely into the dark shadow of the niche.
