The Professional

There’s nothing like winters to put a pickpocket out of business. With all the layers that people walk around in, it would be easier to just rob them at gunpoint. Which is why I found myself alone on the street near a library on the twenty second day of November. It was the time of the year for the pickpockets to go into hibernation, looking at months of honest work that will follow. I knew for a fact that Reggie had gone to work at the farm his uncle owned in Wisconsin and Slippery Steve was almost out of money. It won’t be days before he comes around looking for a little handout.

I usually wouldn’t have bothered stepping out. I had had quite a haul this week and wasn’t in dire need for money. But the occasion was as easy as I would have in the coming months. Apparently, the President was supposed to take this route with his motorcade. People had started gathering for a glimpse of the President since before the first weak ray of sunshine had touched the Dealey Plaza sign at the end of the road. Enthusiastic parents had even dragged their toddlers to witness the event, consciously oblivious to their dragging feet and not-so-subtle cries. With the prime viewing positions limited, the act of getting to the head of the swarm had taken a competitive quality. A person looking at me might have seen a disinterested, rather shabby looking male in his early 40s watching the milling crowd with a passing interest. But what I was really doing was just plain old scouting. While the crowd meant that there were plenty of potential people to choose from, it also meant plenty of potential witnesses. What I’ve learned is that in this trade, you can never be too careful.

Usually, there are two types of people I look for in a crowd. First are the ones with their attention divided between the multiple objects that they carry. It could be a handbag and a dog, or a screaming child hanging to one hand and a winter coat draped across the other. In this case, a pickpocket is very similar to the street magician. Both work with distractions as their ally, with the only difference being that the magician stays on to witness the sense of wonderment that creeps involuntarily on the audience’s face while you wouldn’t find a pickpocket hanging around to observe the consequences of his work. The other easy target are the ones that seem preoccupied with whatever their life has lately thrown at them with little attention paid to what is around them. You can usually spot these by the most innocuous of the details, like an untied shoelace or a missed button on the shirt they are wearing. Sometimes, for the sake of adventure, I try slightly more difficult targets, but these two have been my staple for last six years.

The crowd had become a swelling mass by the time the clock stuck eleven. I still stood in my corner by the library. Being late is better than haste–another of my professional principals. Perhaps the woman with the feathered hat would do; she looked the type with one hand on the hat to stop it from toppling and other trying to part the crowd with her handbag over the shoulder. Or the old man who somehow found himself in the middle of the crowd, overwhelmed with all the fervent people around him. As my gaze followed the old man, a figure appeared from within the crowd. This man was working against the flow of the crowd, trying to get clear of the crowd. As he roughly pushed the people around without a backward glance to make his way, a child whose strawberry ice-cream cone he had knocked overlooked balefully from the melting ice-cream on the pavement to his fast retreating back. This man was wearing a brown, long-sleeved, crumpled shirt. He seemed to be heading into the Texas School Book Depository, the building that I had erroneously judged to be a library. He walked in a straight line with a steady pace, giving the impression of a man who knew where to be and what to do. As he got closer to me, I could observe in more detail. His brown shirt was more creased than I had thought initially. As he lifted his left hand to brush away his equally unkempt hair, I could even see a hole at his elbow! His appearance didn’t exude affluence, but this was the easiest victim I will find. I had almost decided to make my move when he came to a standstill in front of the book depository and looked intently at the building. He was gazing at the facade of the building with the utmost concentration. Then, as if he had come to a decision, he resumed his steps towards the building.

It was time to unburden this soul of some of his material possessions.

Now, most pickpockets would choose the easiest, but the most obvious route: bump into your target. Those are also the pickpockets who have no respect for the art behind what we do. Everything is in finesse.

Pinching the spare cigarette behind my ear, I approached him. We were almost facing each other.

“Say, you wouldn’t have light on you, mister?”

He was shaken out of his reverie. It took him a couple of seconds to register the sound of my words. Reluctantly, his hand went towards his trouser pocket. He fished out a crumpled matchbox. I didn’t reach out my hand to take the matches. After another moment of hesitation, he cupped his hand to light the matchstick and leaned forward to meet my cigarette. As the light from his matchstick sparked the end of my cigarette, I caught a strong whiff of gunpowder. The scent was strong enough to make me forget the whole purpose of this charade. The scent receded with his retreating hand. This man liked guns. He had already laid his hands on one this morning and it was barely twenty past noon. My toothy thanks just got a grunt in return. I’m sure I was dismissed from his mind with that grunt. In my line of trade, that is a compliment. He made a beeline straight for the book depository. Well, the book depository with its many floors was actually not a bad place to catch a glimpse of the President.

The crowd was now pulsating with anticipation. As some late arrivals rushed forward to join the throng, I calmly slid in the narrow alley right beside the book depository. I took out my right hand from my jacket, which came out clutching a battered wallet. Even after that momentary olfactory distraction, I had managed to nip the wallet out of his trousers’ other pocket; I was a professional at this. In about a couple of seconds, I realized this had been a mistake. The wallet was almost completely empty. All it had inside was a folded piece of paper. I threw the wallet aside and unfolded the paper. It was a mail-order receipt made out to a Mr. A. Hidell of P.O. Box 2915 for a Carcano rifle C2766. Well, no surprises there.-

Cursing my luck and thinking about the lean months ahead, I made my way towards the street. Just before I turned the corner to join the outside world, three shots rang out in succession. They didn’t sound quite unlike a Carcano.