Where have all the good bad guys gone?

You know the type - the dashing, likable, maybe even lovable, rogue, craftier and a step faster than the authorities trying to catch him; one who steals mostly from the well-off and shares some of it with the less fortunate (preferably without comparing himself to Robin Hood); an outlaw who, if he does kill, does so only sparingly, and without consuming the casualties afterward.

He comes from meager beginnings, usually; probably was a victim of some unfair treatment; and his lawbreaking - looked at in context - almost seems logical, maybe even just, especially if it involves some entity we'd all like to get revenge against.

Where did that guy go?

He popped up regularly in American history, starting even before the Revolutionary War. Many of those prewar "patriots" were - technically, at the time - criminals with a cause. Later, there was Jesse James in the 1870s and John Dillinger in the 1930s, both of whom captured the imagination of a nation and a good amount of public support. During their crime sprees, they actually had people rooting for them.

But, apart from those in the movies, who was the last real-life criminal we all - or at least a good chunk of mainstream America - could get behind?

John Gotti almost pulled it off, but not quite.

Since the New York mob boss died of cancer in prison last week, Web sites in his honor have been flooded with testimonials about the good things he did - the July 4 festivals he threw in Ozone Park, charitable donations, helping the homeless.

But, outside his New York neighborhood, outside his extended mob family, outside that portion of society that goes ga-ga for anything Godfatherly, the view of Gotti as a folk hero doesn't hold up.

"John Gotti was not a nice man," said Ted Kirkpatrick, a professor of criminology at the University of New Hampshire. "He killed people. He took their money. He extorted from very weak people. He dealt drugs."

Kirkpatrick does not see Gotti going down in history as a good bad guy: "I think his star will fade. He had several ingredients, but he didn't have the whole package."

Gotti had the meager beginnings, born one of 13 children in a poor family in the South Bronx. He had the flash, cutting a dapper figure in his $2,000 suits. He did good deeds.

But he didn't have the heart of gold. In private conversations - at least those law enforcement authorities eavesdropped on - he comes across as arrogant, foul-tempered and totally lacking in mercy. Not what we want in a good bad guy.

Gotti's fans were mostly mobaholics - the hordes of mostly male Americans that, ever since The Godfather, have been obsessed with the mob, and continue to be even as that organization withers away.

"We live boring, conventional lives. He's [flouting] convention. He's breaking the law. He lives well, dresses well, has nice-looking women around him, smokes good cigars. What male, in his fantasies, wouldn't want to be him?" Kirkpatrick said. "Why are we so fascinated with the mob? For the same reason we're fascinated with the rich and famous."

In a word, envy.

In two, vicarious thrills.

That's what we are seeking in our good bad guys, or would be if we had any. Instead, we have only the movies, where good bad guys abound, doing the things we don't have the nerve to do.

We're not talking about the morbid fascination we have with serial killers, who both intrigue and repulse us.

We're talking about something more innocent (at least until proved guilty): criminals who, while providing us some secondhand thrills, also earn our admiration - for what they pulled off, how they pulled it off, or whom they pulled it off against - criminals to whom, if we had a chance, we would privately sneak a thumbs-up.

Jesse James, while tipping his hat to the ladies during bank robberies, would sometimes, mid-getaway, stuff wads of bills into customer's handbags and pockets. John Dillinger and his cohorts - 60 years later - would sometimes destroy loan records at the banks they robbed, helping out farmers and others facing foreclosure.

Dillinger rose to fame in the midst of the Depression. Millions were jobless. There was an overwhelming feeling of helplessness. And Americans had little love for banks. Those that weren't failing, taking peoples' savings with them, were foreclosing on homes, farms and businesses.

Given that, many Americans didn't find Dillinger's exploits all that reprehensible, and some even followed them with glee. Audiences watching newsreels applauded Dillinger, and seeing how the public was eating it up, the news media fed them more.

In the process, any acts of kindness among Depression-era bank robbers - though they were far from candidates for sainthood - were played up.

These days, the news media are more responsible. Really. They are less likely to turn a crook into a hero to sell papers, and more likely to expose any and all blemishes a person might have, whether he's running for president or from the law.

"It's awfully hard these days for a criminal to have the kind of celebrity that is durable," said Kirkpatrick. "That was possible in the 20th century, but now we have a very aggressive media. You have to wonder, if you put Dillinger in the 21st century, would he fare as well."

All of which helps explain, in part, the current shortage of good bad guys. In the past 20 years, the nation has become much tougher on crime, imprisoning more for longer periods; and we're less willing to find the good in a person that has done bad. Nobody's going through the Ten Most Wanted list looking for redeeming qualities.

Since Sept. 11, we're even less tolerant. Osama bin Laden - though gaining folk-hero status in some parts of the Islamic world - redefined "bad guy" in America, and left us more suspicious than ever. In a country that looks warily at Arabs in airports, packages in the mail, even priests in the parish, how likely is a criminal to gain a loyal following?

On the other hand, have we ever felt more helpless?

A moral crook, carefully choosing his marks, practicing some philanthropy, keeping the cruelty to a minimum, could still emerge as the next good bad guy, or so Kirkpatrick thinks.

Maybe an upright outlaw, if there really is such a thing, could come along. Someone ballad-worthy. Someone who could penetrate our intolerance and earn our respect. Someone who - if he didn't kick dogs, falsify resumes or bust kneecaps - could even hold on to it.

"It's when we detect kinks in the armor, or a darker heart," Kirkpatrick said, "that's when we lose patience with a person like that."