Continued from Page 1
BOB, WITH HIS SHREWD eye, pointed to a 30ish man standing in the street and suggested we watch him for a minute. He was loitering beside a parked car whose driver was digging around in the trunk. Bob noticed another man a few yards away and told me they were giving each other signals. I could see it as soon as he mentioned it. We loitered, too. The two guys soon gave up on the car and wandered to the center of La Rambla, very close to us. They didn’t look much different from anyone else except for their ugly clothes and rotten teeth. They both carried jackets, but that wasn’t strange given the weather. We thought they might be North African – we knew from the tourist police of the problem with Algerians in Southern Europe.
We strained our peripheral vision for five minutes or so, watching them. Then, sure enough, they sidled up to a 60ish German man and, after a few attempts, extracted his wallet from his backpack. We had a perfect view, having given up polite peripheral for outright staring. They didn’t notice us. I was about to tell the man what had just happened, but before the pickpocket could move away, he fumbled and dropped the wallet and the victim turned around.
| |
|
| |
 |
| Arno on the Arno–Bob pauses in his research in Florence, where
the Ponte Vecchio is a rich laboratory of pickpockeets and con
artists.
|
We left him with his perplexity and caught up with the shifty-eyed pair, asking if they spoke a little English. Very little. They used French. They were Algerian. In French, Bob said he’s just like them. The same. Same profession. They didn’t quite believe it, or didn’t know what to believe, but they made no move to leave us. Bob then stole the watch off one of the guys which, of course, neither noticed. When he gave it back, they were astounded. They threw their arms around Bob. We never said anything about stage or entertainment. We couldn’t take the conversation much further though; their French was too poor.
IT WAS LIKE FOCUSING a microscope. Suddenly, a whole new subculture opened up to us and the gentlemen thieves came clearly into view. We spotted six different pairs in half a day. First you pick them out of the crowd on intuition; then you observe behavior. Are they zigzagging, backtracking, sticking in or behind a crowd? Are they pretending to look at a news rack, or using the reflection of a shop window? Bob and I became equally good at spotting them.
It was late afternoon when we both zeroed in on a well-dressed man in a beige sport jacket. He had a partner at first, but we soon lost track of him. Our man was up and down La Rambla, then came to a stop. We bent to smell a flower display, moved closer and considered a postcard rack, closer yet and studied a tabletop menu. He took off again in a hurry and Bob aimed the video. Then he was doubling back toward us and past us, disappearing in a crowd. We ran to catch up, sensing this was the moment. We burst into the moving crowd just in time. The man was down on one knee, brushing and shaking the lower pant leg of his confused victim. He rose and apologized, as if he had been trying to help.
The startled victim thanked him, but he didn’t know what for. He was dazed and confused when I accosted him, asking brusquely if he still had his wallet. He felt his front pants pocket. No! It was gone! $2,000! His head swivelled wildly. Bob was filming. There he goes, I yelled, but the thief was gone.
We tried to explain our participation to the victim and, as consolation, escorted him to the tourist police station. We had a good rapport with the officers there, but knew they spoke only Spanish and English. Using German, Bob could interpret for this man, an Indian living in Holland.
We showed the police our video of the crime and promised them a copy.
Meanwhile, another couple came in–pickpocketed. Bob translated again. Then came a pair of American backpacking girls; same. When we visited the station again in the evening, another two couples were there reporting. At the American Express office, a man was reporting his card stolen. At the Gaudi cathedral someone shot a hole in his tire. When he got out to fix the tire, they stole his wallet.
We decided to pay closer attention to the three shell game. It takes a gang of eight to ten to perform it properly. They set up on a cardboard box so as soon as their spotter gets a whiff of police, they can flatten the box and disperse. They use hollowed-out new-potato halves for cups, and a dried pea. We could readily see who the shills were and how they created their own excitement to attract players. One shill bets and loses, slaps her forehead: ugh, how could I miss it! You can see where the pea hides. Another encourages her to try again. She loses again. Another shill joins, an octogenarian with a cane. An ordinary-looking Spanish businessman passed by, saw how easy it looked, knew he could do it. He put down some money and after a few minutes a ferocious argument started between him and the what, the dealer? The guy doing the game. Meanwhile, a female team member slipped her hand into the man’s front pants pocket. He felt it. He slapped her hand and stormed off.
THESE GAMES GO ON all over the upper end of La Rambla, especially in Plaça de Catalunya. At times there are three or four rival teams on a corner, competing for marks with their complicated choreography. For the very best, the game isn’t everything; it’s the light-fingered ladies hovering on the perimeter who get the goods.
It’s not just Barcelona. In Paris, I became the mark. But we saw him first! He leaned nonchalantly just outside the Lido Theatre, a prime spot for tourists with money in their pockets. In his mid-30s, with glasses on his Irish face, he was dressed masterfully in blend-in-with-the-crowd indistinct clothes. Bob suggested we watch him a bit, so we leaned against a rail and glanced at our watches as if meeting friends. Our prey rose and sauntered around us – his prey! We ignored him. We chatted. Between the two of us, we could see in all directions. Testing us, he vanished down the Metro stairs, but before we gave up he was right back again.
He took up position leaning against a street lamp ten feet from us. We started walking down the block. He followed. Each staking the other out. We veered to a shop window to look at shoes. No, we went to watch his reflection. He passed us. He came back. He came up beside me, also to look at shoes. Or to look at my bag. I got nervous and moved closer to Bob. Two policemen came patrolling. Our friend moved away and we lost him. Damn! It was never proven, but we know!