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.

“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.”

“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.

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