May 1976
There were things to learn before going on a trip back to New York. First, the people “about to get relieved of some of the
burden of money or property” (as Dean put it) were called marks.
“The person who spots the mark is called the steer,” Dean explained. “Sometimes that’s me, but often, it’s Sally. She has
a good eye.”
Another, usually Denver or Cat, would put themselves in the way, distract the mark. They were called the stalls, and their
job was the misdirect. They would tap or bump or stumble to make people comfortable with touch—or at least not really notice
it, so when you went back in to grab something, they didn’t register the sensation. The object—the watch, the wallet, the
cash, whatever—was called the poke.
“And then,” Dean said, “we go in for the dip. That’s when we actually take the thing. Never say steal. We dip. And the most
important part of all is that whoever does the dip never carries. Never. Whatever they’ve taken, they don’t hold it for more
than a few seconds. We pass it. And then we pass it again. Watch.”
Dean held up a wallet.
“Now,” he said, “see where it goes.”
They all started moving, walking around like they were on a city street, casually passing each other a few times. Blue studied
them. Dean strolled off with a newspaper. Cat had a grocery bag. Lacey put on a shawl; Denver looked for something in her
massive purse until she found a bandanna. While they passed close to one another, Blue never saw the wallet. The whole thing
lasted maybe twenty seconds.
“Okay,” Dean said. “Who has it?”
“Denver?”
This was a pure guess, since Denver had been looking around in her bag.
“We’ll do it again. We’ll show you.”
Back into the first position. Dean took the wallet from Sally and casually walked off with it tucked into a newspaper. They
moved more slowly so that Blue could see that he tipped the contents of the folded newspaper into Denver’s big bag. Denver
circled around, still looking in her bag, slipping it to Lacey as she adjusted her big shawl. From the shawl, it went into
the paper grocery bag that Cat was carrying.
Blue learned how to conceal and pass objects, first handfuls of cash, then wallets and bags.
She learned how to frame someone—walk alongside or in front of them to get them to stop, to trip, to lift up their hands.
They had dozens of ways of getting people to turn.
Maybe it was as simple as two of the girls flashing up their short shirts (they called this one the “dirty hippie” trick).
They might ask people for directions, drop items, pretend to fall.
One of the ones that amused them the most was the “damsel in distress.” One girl would dress in a little twinset with her hair tucked up neatly, a crocodile pocketbook (stolen) over her arm.
Dean would run up alongside and “steal” the bag.
While the mark stopped to help the distressed girl, another member of the group would do the dip.
“We did that one in the park once,” Sally said. “Over by the art museum. Got a wallet with five hundred bucks in it.”
What they did not do—and this, Dean explained, set them apart—was target people on subways or buses, where most pickpockets
worked.
“We could make a lot of money that way,” he said, “but the people on the subway and the bus, that’s not who we’re after.”
“Do you know how much you can get on a good subway run?” Denver added. “Hundreds of bucks. You wouldn’t believe it.”
“We choose our marks carefully,” Dean said, “because we’re not here to hurt anyone. We are moving that money energy from the
rich and toward the kids and anyone hungry. We don’t hurt people.”
After a week Blue was deemed ready to go with them to the city on a run. It was strange going back after being on the mountain
for a month. She had gotten used to the quiet of the mountain, the fresh air and trees. As they drove over the bridge into
Manhattan and Blue looked down at the endless blocks of buildings, she shuddered.
They parked the van on Fourth Street, which seemed like a terrible idea.
Blue had lived in the East Village, and everyone knew there was a war between biker gangs going on between Third and Fourth Street.
Fourth was a street of blanked-out doorways, broken windows, and people watching from above.
A group of local kids, some on roller skates, clustered around the van.
One—a scrawny kid in red-and-blue-striped pants who rode a low-to-the-ground three-wheeler—dismounted to greet Dean.
“Don’t worry,” Denver said, reading Blue’s expression. “Those kids own this block. They’ll take care of things.”
Striped Pants took a handful of something from Dean and ran up the muddy brown steps of a nearby apartment building. Meanwhile,
Dean handed out bills to the kids, bills to the older women sitting on the stoops.
“See,” Jane said. “This is what we do. Redistribute wealth.”
Were they redistributing wealth or paying kids to watch the van? Maybe it was the same thing. It was odd—this had been her
neighborhood, but coming back to it as part of the group, everything was foreign to Blue. It was as if she had never understood
how the world worked until she met the others. They showed her where all the wires ran. The game, as Dean put it, was everywhere.
Some of the girls changed into what they called “straight” clothes—polite skirts and sweaters, wigs and glasses. They looked
absurd with their bouffant hair and plaid vests. Denver and Cat wore their shortest skirts and most transparent blouses. Denver
wore Dean’s plumed hat.
They took the subway uptown, to Fifty-Ninth Street. As they got off the subway, they passed a man on the street with a dog in a torn blanket and a begging cup in front of him. Dean peeled off several twenties and put them in.
“For you, brother,” he said. “Keep going.”
“You observe today,” Dean said to Blue as the two of them took a seat on a bench just inside Central Park, by the duck pond.
Sally was stationed at a farther bench, pretending to read a book.
“Now watch how Sally steers,” Dean said. “See? She’s looking at each person for the signs. What kind of clothes. If they’re
paying attention.”
A man in a business suit walked along at a clip. Sally uncrossed and recrossed her legs.
“Here we go,” Dean said.
Denver and Cat bounced down the path toward the man, putting on a show, flirtatiously laughing and sharing a single feather
boa. The man moved away from them.
“See that?” Dean said. “He doesn’t trust them. He’s careful about his wallet. That’s why Sally picked him. You can learn everything
you need to know by sitting in this park and watching people for an hour. How they hold their hands. Are they covering something
they think is valuable? Are they open? Unaware? Look at everything, Blue.”
Sweet Jane was in play now, in her twinset with her high and tidy hair. She moved past the man quickly, as if she too were
avoiding Cat and Denver, and bumped into him slightly.
“Nice hair!” Denver called to Jane teasingly.
“Put some clothes on!” Jane shot back.
“That’s distraction two,” Dean said. “And it gets him used to being touched. The first time someone gets a bump, they flinch.
It’s instinctive. So they won’t feel this as much. . . .”
Lacey came up from behind and made the dip. Blue didn’t see it happen—but she knew that’s what went down when she barely brushed
past the man.
“What now?” Dean asked Blue.
“The person who dips never carries,” Blue replied.
“Correct.”
Sweet Jane and Lacey walked at the same pace for just a moment.
“Now our Sweet Jane has it,” Dean said. All the players walked off the stage, except for Sally, who continued to read for
a minute or two, then closed her book and walked away.
Blue and Dean left the park via the Fifth Avenue side and walked down to the corner of Fifty-Ninth and Fifth Avenue, where
Sweet Jane was sitting primly in front of the Plaza Hotel. She slipped a wallet into the bag Blue was carrying.
“Today, you carry,” Dean said.
Throughout the day, Blue’s bag grew heavier with wallets and trinkets. They ended the run around four in the afternoon and
went back downtown on the subway. They stopped for pizza on Seventh Street. Blue noticed a girl with a shock of curly hair
looking in at them. She wore a halter top with a star on it and blue shorts. She was tiny, but a pair of red platform shoes
added several inches to her height.
“Hey,” Dean said, jerking up his chin in Blue’s direction. “That girl out there. She looks hungry. Go and get her.”
Blue slid out of the booth and went outside to the girl, who stared at her with wide, alarmed eyes. What was she supposed
to say? Just be direct.
“You want to come in and eat with us? We have plenty of food.”
The girl looked at Blue with a mix of worry and relief in equal measure. She was very petite. Blue could have picked her up
like a doll.
“Okay.”
Inside, there was a warm round of hellos, as if this girl had been with them all the time.
“What’s your name?” Dean asked.
“Melissa,” she said.
“Melissa with the star on her shirt. Melissa the Star. Star.”
“Star,” repeated a few of the group in between bites of pizza.
“Star,” he repeated. “Can we call you Star?”
“I guess.”
It was exactly like what had happened with Blue. Everyone was smiling intently. So was she, she found. The corners of her
mouth had twisted up involuntarily. She was happy. Right? Of course she was.
“How old are you?” Dean asked, pushing the pizza toward Star. She eagerly grabbed a piece, clenching it in a fold in her long,
delicate fingers. They were covered in cheap rings, and she had a green bangle on her wrist.
“Seventeen.”
“You live around here?”
“Sort of. I’m crashing with someone. I . . .”
“You ran away,” Dean said. It wasn’t a question.
“Yeah.”
“Well, we all felt you in here. We needed you to come and join us.”
“We did,” Denver said.
Everyone was nodding. Blue was nodding. Maybe she had felt it, the pull of the lonely girl. She knew that pain, that terrible
fear.
“What have you been doing? You have a job or something?”
Star shrugged.
“I did. I kind of worked at this store, but I don’t now.”
“Out of cash?”
“Kind of.”
Denver slid over and put her arm around Star’s shoulders.
“You should come with us,” she said. “We have a house upstate and we take care of each other. No one should be alone.”