He can tell by watching who the spears are and the stick men and the lone cannons. : Oscar and the Mitten

Oscar O’Lear was walking down the streets of Arleta the other day, slouching and scowling and thinking about Timothy Mittens.

“I got so I kind of liked the guy,” Oscar was saying, “even though I busted him eight times. So when he calls about two weeks ago, I say, ‘Mittens, I’ll spring for dinner one of these days,’ and he says, ‘Right, O’Leary, I’ll drop a dime on you.’ ”

Oscar scowled as he turned into a restaurant for a beer and a tuna sandwich. Oscar almost always scowls.

“Somebody ought to tell the guy it costs a quarter to make a phone call now.” He shook his head. “I guess he hasn’t paid lately.”

They called him O’Leary on the street, with a “y” on the end. He was the best pickpocket cop the LAPD ever had, and maybe the best in the country. When Oscar was working bunco, pickpocketing was down in L.A. at the same time it was going up everyplace else.

O’Lear has what you call a grift sense, which means he can tell just by watching who the spears are and the stick men and the lone cannons, all names for the types who dip into your pocket or your purse while you are otherwise distracted, either shopping or on the can.

“The toilet spears are called dunnigans,” Oscar explained. “They hit a guy when he is less likely to give chase right away.”

That appealed to Oscar. He could see someone trying to pull up his pants and chase a pickpocket at the same time. I cannot tell for sure, but I think he smiled.

O’Lear retired in 1976 after 28 years as a cop, the last 14 of which were spent catching pickpockets. Two thousand of them. It was during those years that he met Timothy Mittens.

The Mitt, like Oscar, was the best of his kind, and it was inevitable that their paths should cross.

Mittens was a gentle soul with lightning hands who hated violence and only lifted wallets from women’s purses because women were less likely to fight back.

They called him Mittens because a judge, tired of Timothy being brought in by Oscar every few months, sentenced him to wear mittens in public as a condition of probation.

Timothy was naturally upset and wanted to know what constituted a public place.

“Every place is a public place,” the judge told him, “except my house, your house and the court clerk’s house.”

“He never wore the mittens,” Oscar said, his gaze darting around the restaurant. I have never been with O’Lear when he has not been sizing everyone up, sometimes fixing on a guy with a stare like a laser beam.

“I used to moonlight in Newberry’s and I saw Timothy one day, looking around. ‘OK, Tim,’ I say to him, ‘let’s go, you’re under arrest.’ I never had to put the cuffs on him.

“ ‘Hey, man,’ he says, ‘I wasn’t doing nothin’, I was just passing through!’ Timothy was always just passing through. ‘Timothy,’ I say, ‘I know you weren’t doing anything. But I am arresting you for failure to wear your mittens.’ ”

Oscar finished his beer and his tuna sandwich and picked at his apple pie.

He was in a mood to talk, which was fine with me. One time, he said, he arrested Mittens, then asked for a court continuance to take a vacation. Mittens was on parole.

“I come back from vacation early, though, and I see the Mitt working, so I bust him. ‘O’Leary,’ he says, surprised, ‘what the hell you doin’ here? You’re supposed to be on vacation!’ ”

Oscar observed him with that Walter Matthau scowl. “I came back early,” he said, “because I missed you.”

O’Lear is 68 and could pass for younger. He works part time at Hollywood Park and has arrested both the son and daughter of Timothy Mittens, who tried to follow in their father’s footsteps.

“That made Tim sad,” Oscar said, finishing up the apple pie. “ ‘I didn’t want them to do that, O’Leary,’ he says. ‘Well, Tim,’ I tell him as easy as I can, ‘that’s what happens when the father does it.’

“The Mitt promised me they’d never steal again, and from what I hear they haven’t.”

I wanted to know about Timothy Mittens himself. We were walking along Devonshire toward the car.

“Probably still working the streets,” Oscar said. “But I have a good feeling for the guy anyhow. What he does is wrong but . . . well, you know, when I retired I was having some problems with the chief so they don’t give me a retirement dinner even though I am there 28 years.

“But you know who comes down to buy me a cup of coffee on the last day? Timothy Mittens.”

Oscar walked along slowly, thinking about that. About Mittens. About the years on the street. About the odd friendship two men could develop, even though one was a cop and one was a spear.

“I thought he looked bad off so I slip a 10 across the table and say, ‘Here, Tim, maybe you can use this.’ He grins and reaches into his wallet and slips a hundred dollar bill across the table. ‘Here, O’Leary,’ he says, ‘maybe you can use this.’ ”

Oscar smiled, the hard gaze softened by memory. Then he said, “Funny kind of place the street.”