The Whiz Mob and the Grenadine Kid Read online

  A man in a clean, pressed, three-piece suit walked by them, carrying a briefcase. His eyes were intent on some point in the distance. Abruptly, Amir shoved Charlie into the man’s path.

  “Hey!” shouted Charlie.

  The man careered around the obstacle. He shot Charlie a scowl and said, in French, “Watch where you’re going, boy.” Brushing the front of his suit jacket, the man continued on his way.

  “Pardon, monsieur,” said Amir after him. He looked at Charlie. “There, you were someone. Something. To that man. Until you weren’t anymore. It’s a fine line, between nothing and something. But this is where you want to be, on this side, with the nothings. Because when you’re someone, something, that’s when you have to run.”

  Charlie smiled. “Got it,” he said.

  “No, you don’t,” said Amir. “But it’s a start.”

  They caught the number three tram where Rue de Rome began, there at the roundabout that circled the magnificent Jules Cantini fountain, with its enormous column, and found a seat next to two shopgirls. The girls inched away from Amir, as if instinctively sensing the danger of his presence, but the boy was immediately able to put them at ease by his bright smile and the telling of a joke. Charlie, for his part, immediately felt a paralyzing discomfort whenever he was in the presence of girls. He let Amir’s ease radiate over him and gave the girls a smile; one of them smiled back. He felt his face flush and looked at his shoes.

  Amir slapped Charlie in the thigh. “Okay,” he said. “Look at this.”

  A man had just climbed on board the tram—he was perhaps forty years old and looked to be one of the earlier travelers in Marseille’s afternoon commute. His hair was neatly pomaded back and he wore a fine gabardine suit. In his hand was a wadded-up newspaper, which he unfurled with a flick of his wrist and, leaning against one of the vertical tram bars, began to read.

  “Left britch kick, right britch kick, keister kick,” Amir whispered to Charlie. His finger danced, pointing at various parts of the air in front of him.

  “Excuse me?” asked Charlie.

  The man glanced over at the two boys; Amir looked out the window. Once the man’s attention had returned to the paper, Amir shot Charlie a glare. “Left britch, right britch, keister kick,” he repeated in a hushed voice. “Pockets.”

  “Oh,” whispered Charlie.

  Amir said the mysterious words again, this time patting places on his body: right pants pocket, left pants pocket, rear pocket. “Coat pit,” he added, and his hand mimed slipping into the inside of a jacket breast. The tram had stopped, and like the surge of a tide, one crowd of passengers heaved off the car to be replaced by another. The man in the gabardine suit, jostled, remained where he stood. Charlie looked down the aisle and saw that a conductor had boarded the tram and was calling for tickets.

  “Amir,” he whispered. He nodded to the prow of the tramcar. They hadn’t purchased tickets. When Charlie rode the tram, which he rarely did, he always bought a ticket, even though he knew many people didn’t. This time, however, he’d been swept up in Amir’s gravitational force and was, heaven forfend, riding illegally.

  Without a word, Amir stood up, and timing his movements with the initial jerk of the car leaving the stop, he bumped up against the man in the gabardine suit.

  “Pardon,” he said, which did not elicit any response from the man. He then sat back down next to Charlie, and, sliding something along the wood of the bench between them, he said, “Coat jerve. Ticket pocket.”

  Charlie looked down and saw that Amir had procured a ticket for them.

  It all happened very quickly: the conductor approached the man in the gabardine suit and casually asked for his ticket. Gabardine (we shall call him) reached into the small pocket on his suit coat—the one that was just above the larger pocket—and found it empty. He then began searching his jacket with increasing alarm. He spoke apologetically in quick-clipped French as he did this.

  The ticket taker behaved as all ticket takers do when they are faced with a ticketless passenger: he told Gabardine in a tone that married complete boredom and a total, black-hole-like lack of sympathy, that he would be forced to leave the tram at the next stop. He then pulled out a small writing pad, and licking the end of his pencil like a butcher prepping his knife, he began writing the man a fine. His victim could only look on in despair.

  Charlie couldn’t stand it. He grabbed the stolen ticket that Amir had handed him and stood up. Amir hissed an objection, which Charlie ignored. “He can use mine,” said Charlie, offering up the yellow piece of paper.

  The conductor raised his eyebrow and lifted the pencil from his pad. Charlie, taking a moment to formulate the words, repeated the declaration in French. The conductor grabbed Charlie’s ticket and, producing a hole punch, punched two dots into it.

  “And one more for my friend,” said Charlie, pointing to Amir.

  “Merci,” said Gabardine once the conductor had left them.

  “You can have the rest,” said Charlie, handing the well-worn ticket back to the man. “Just a few punches left.”

  “Very kind of you,” the man said, in English. “I do not know what happened to mine.”

  Amir grabbed Charlie by his shirt and led him to the back of the tram. “What did you do there?”

  “I felt bad for the guy,” responded Charlie.

  “Why do you feel bad for him? So he’s off the tram a few stops early.”

  “He was about to get fined. That’s not nice.”

  “Pah,” said Amir. “He’ll never pay that fine. No one pays the fine.”

  “Well, still . . .”

  “Still nothing, Charlie Fisher. Don’t feel sorry for the mark. The mark is a sucker. What you did, you gave up your kisser. A class cannon don’t kick the okus back unless he’s rumbled, yeah?”

  “I didn’t understand a word of that.”

  The tram shook as it noisily handled a corner. The tram riders shifted in unison with the movement. Amir heaved a sigh.

  “Why am I doing this?” he asked, to no one in particular.

  “Sorry, was that a rhetorical question?” asked Charlie.

  “Shh, Charlie,” said Amir. “I’m doing this because you helped me. If you don’t learn, fine. But you helped me and you asked me to do this, so I’m gonna do it.”

  “Thanks?” said Charlie uncertainly. “But maybe you could speak clear English while you do.”

  “I’m speaking English,” said Amir.

  “But with all the pits and the jerves and the cannons and such?”

  “Ah, yes,” said Amir. “The talk. You’re going to have to learn that too.”

  Just then, the tram rolled beyond the canyon of shop windows and wheat-paste-postered walls into the wide, stony playa of the Quai des Belges. The sky was pristine blue, as only Mediterranean skies can be, and the comings and goings of the Frioul ferries in the port created a perpetual hubbub amid the crowded sailboat slips. A long line of ferry-goers curled its way from the ticket window to the street, attracting a swarm of buskers and panhandlers. Charlie watched it all through the dirty windows, rapt. The tram came to a wheezing stop.

  “So what’s the first plan of action?” asked Charlie. “This seems like a pretty good . . .” He suddenly realized he was speaking to no one. Amir had gone. He looked out the window and saw the boy standing by a cement bollard, looking somewhat miffed at Charlie.

  With a jolt, the car began moving again, and Charlie dashed for the doors as they began to accordion closed. He managed to get one arm free of the tram and tried to mash the rest of his body through the gap it created. Amir looked on bemusedly.

  “Wait—stop!” Charlie moaned. The tram driver began opening and closing the door, assuming some foreign object was in the way—which one was—and only these repeated motions could dislodge it. Bang, bang went the doors on Charlie’s forearm. During one of the doors’ in-breaths, Charlie managed an escape and tumbled out into the street. The tram moved on.

  “Graceful,”
observed Amir.

  “Well, you could’ve told me you were getting off.”

  “Observation,” said Amir, tapping his temple. “Observation is the thing, yeah?”

  “Is this how this is going to go, all day? Is everything going to be a lesson in how bad I am at this?”

  “Everything is a . . .”

  “Oh, come on!” protested Charlie.

  Amir hit him, playfully, in the shoulder. “I’m joking. Let’s go.” He then jogged off toward the loitering crowds on the quay square.

  “Ouch,” Charlie muttered, rubbing his arm.

  A trolley bus briefly blocked Charlie’s view, but once it had passed, he could see the square laid out before him. The Quai des Belges.

  For those of you wondering, you are free to pronounce the word “quai”—or, in English, “quay”—in one of the three following ways: kway, kay, or key. The word, which means “a structure built parallel to the bank of a waterway for use as a landing place,” is descended from Middle English and Middle French, which is appropriate in this context. It is assumed that whoever decided to spell it with a Q was just having a joke. This quay is one of three such structures that are built on a port that dates back to prehistory, having been treasured by Greek sailors for its location and ease of use. It has not, in the intervening years, lost its luster. Now the water is populated by pleasure yachts and fishing boats and walled in on three sides by the facades of restaurants, bars, and hotels. Charlie and Amir stood on the gray paving stones of the square at the head of the port, farthest from the sea. They were two among many: a group of schoolchildren in maroon uniforms traversed the square; a small gang of soldiers in khaki stood in a circle, chatting and smoking. There was a woman selling balloons, as there was most days. Tourists and natives alike, whether they want to or not, must cross the square at the Quai des Belges, and, as a consequence, it enjoys all the activity of a beehive abuzz with bees.

  “I figured it would be better to show you in the place where it is best,” said Amir, gesturing to the scene around him. “This is, as they say, good training ground. Easy marks—maybe not the fattest touches, but still good. As good a place to turn you out as any.” He saw Charlie’s confused expression and appended: “Teach you to pickpocket.”

  “Okay,” said Charlie. “So show me.”

  “The whiz is sleight of hand, it’s a ten-a-penny magic trick. Just we don’t give back what we lift. But the same stuff applies. It’s all about manipulating attention. Distraction. Misdirection. Everybody wants to see something special.” While Amir talked, his hands began moving in a graceful, fluid way. If Charlie didn’t know that he was receiving his first lesson on picking pockets, he would maybe think it was a little strange the way the boy’s hands were moving, but certainly nothing out of the ordinary. To the casual viewer, Amir might seem to have simply an eccentric way of using his hands as he spoke.

  “Look at that,” he said. Amir had shifted to stand alongside Charlie. He held out his hand as if he were holding a newspaper or a brochure.

  Charlie looked. He didn’t see anything.

  “What am I supposed to be looking at?” he asked.

  “Look closer,” said Amir.

  Charlie squinted, but all he could see were the crinkly lines in Amir’s open palm.

  “Nothing,” said Charlie.

  Amir’s other hand appeared at that moment, just below his outstretched one, holding Charlie’s wallet.

  “Exactly,” said Amir. “Everybody wants to see something. Even if it’s nothing.” Amir quickly sidestepped back to face Charlie.

  “Okay, give me that back,” said Charlie.

  “Check your coat pit.”

  Charlie sucked his teeth. “Which one is that again?”

  Amir stood in front of Charlie and, like a gypsy busker playing spoons, slapped various parts of Charlie’s clothing in quick succession. “Left and right britch kicks. Keister kicks. Coat tails.” He pointed to the inside pocket of Charlie’s jacket, saying, “Coat pit.” Charlie slipped his hand there and found the reassuring lump of his leather wallet.

  “You’re supposed to be teaching me how to pick pockets, not just stand there and pick my own.”

  Amir smiled. “People become comfortable in their surroundings, yeah? They don’t expect an invasion. Surprise, in this case, is your enemy.” Suddenly, he leaned forward and slapped Charlie lightly on the side of the head. “No knives,” he said.

  “What?”

  Something glinted in Amir’s hand. It was the Opinel pocketknife that Charlie had stuffed in his pants pocket—his right britch—before they’d left. Amir had nabbed it without Charlie knowing.

  “Well,” began Charlie, “I—”

  “We ain’t working rough,” said Amir. “No cannon with the know carries steel. That’s for the heavy rackets.” As he spoke, he managed a neat pirouette to Charlie’s left side, giving a nod to a young woman passing by. “The beauty of the pickpocket, yeah? Is that he only needs these.” Amir held up his left hand, palm out. It was, as you might expect, empty. “To do this,” he continued, lifting his right hand up from his side. Charlie’s silver Rolex watch was dangling from his fingers.

  “Hey,” said Charlie.

  “You want your watch back?” he asked.

  “Um, yes,” said Charlie. It, too, had been a gift from his father. Losing the pen had been one thing—he couldn’t imagine explaining away the watch.

  With a lithe move, Amir slipped it into his own front pants pocket. “Okay,” he said. “Steal it from me.”

  “Right,” Charlie said, sizing up the challenge. He kept his eyes intent on the small bulge at the bottom of Amir’s pocket.

  “Eyes up,” said Amir, waving his hands. “When you’re fanning the mark, don’t just stare at the touch—at the thing you’re gonna steal. ’Cause I’m looking where you’re looking, yeah? You’re fronting me, the mark, and now I’m rumbled—I’m onto you. I see what you’re going to do.”

  “But you know what I’m going to do.”

  Amir rolled his eyes. “This is a lesson, Charlie. Besides, with a real class cannon, it don’t matter. I could tell you I’m going to pinch the glasses off your face and you wouldn’t know till you was seeing fuzzy.” He gestured forward with his fingers. “C’mon.”

  “Eyes up,” repeated Charlie, looking at Amir directly.

  “Good,” said Amir. “You’ve got my attention. You’ve fanned me. You’re making the frame. You’re planning your move. Now misdirect.”

  “How do I do that?”

  “You’ve got to make me change my attention. Away from you.”

  “Ah,” said Charlie. He thought a moment. “Hey! Look over there!”

  Amir winced a little, annoyed, but did as he was told. He looked off in the direction of a ferryboat that was idling into its slip. Charlie jammed his fingers into Amir’s pocket and tried to grab the watch. His fingers hadn’t even made contact with the metallic band before Amir had grabbed his wrist.

  “What are you trying to do, tear my pockets out?” chided Amir. “No, no. You’ve fanned the ticker, the watch, right? I got deep pockets here and it’s at the bottom. You know you ain’t just grabbing it without rumbling me.”

  “So what do I do?”

  “Move the watch to you. With your other hand.”

  “But how do I do that when you’re right in front of me?”

  “Step to my side.”

  Charlie did as Amir said and they both, elbow to elbow, watched the ferry hands lash the bollards on the quay with coils of thick hemp rope. Charlie’s fingers found their way to the jangling weight of the watch and, through the trouser fabric, began to push it toward the top of Amir’s pocket.

  “Good, good,” said Amir. “Imagine the mark’s eyes got spotlights in ’em, yeah? Two bright white spotlights. And wherever they’re looking, there’s like a big white circle of light. Your job is to work in the darkness around that light.”

  But Charlie had frozen. His fingers had managed
to creep the watch about halfway up Amir’s pocket; any farther and he knew that he would be giving himself away. “Now what?” he whispered.

  “You got another hand, right?” Amir whispered back.

  “Yeah.”

  “So . . . use it. Turn away, let your other hand take the weight.”

  Charlie turned his body slightly to the right as if he were looking back over Amir’s shoulder and exchanged the lump of watch into his left hand.

  Amir continued to instruct: “Good. Now get your right fingers in the kick, easy like. Yep, just so. Feel that watchband?”

  “Yes,” said Charlie, scarcely able to hide his excitement. He had the band carefully pinched between his index and middle fingers. “I’ve got it.”

  “Now, this is the tricky part. Don’t just yank the okus, you’ll rumble me. You got to make it natural. Shade your touch, yeah?”

  “Which means . . . ?”

  “Cut into me, it’s called. Walk away and give me a brush-by as you do. Like you’re finished looking at whatever it was we was looking at, yeah? Just walk.”

  Charlie did as Amir instructed, stepping away toward the street and letting his shoulder make contact with the fabric of Amir’s pink shirt as he went. The watch tumbled easily out of the boy’s pocket, snagged between Charlie’s fingers. He took a few steps and turned around, grinning triumphantly. “I did it!” he shouted.

  “Shhh!” chided Amir. “Keep it down, Charlie.”

  “I did it!” repeated Charlie, this time in a whisper.

  Amir smiled, apparently won over by the American’s enthusiasm. “You’re safe as kelsey, Charlie. Nice work.” He then mimed a bout of proud sobbing, rubbing his eyes with his balled fists. “My boy’s first touch! I’m under the moon!”

  “The phrase is ‘over the moon,’ actually,” said Charlie. He went to strap the watch back on his wrist when he realized he’d been holding a simple piece of chain all along. He looked up at Amir. “Are you serious?”

  Amir grinned and flashed the shiny silver Rolex that hung on his wrist. “You don’t think I’d give it up, do you?”

  “Can you just give the pocket picking a break for a moment?”