"Natural history had always been an outsourced business," writes Jennie Erin Smith in her deft new book, Stolen World. "Someone had to fill the cabinets of curiosity, to steal the world from the world and bring it back, or no one would believe it."

In the Old World, collecting was sometimes a conduit to establishment science (think Alfred Russel Wallace or Henry Bates). But in the New World, collecting more often fed Barnum-style shows that blended science and entertainment: the story of an acquisition often mattered more than the specimen itself. This maxim propels Stolen World, which chronicles the exploits of a dying breed -- not snakes, but the leather-skinned, gum boot–wearing, reptiles-in-the-socks smugglers who bring them home.

Smith's story begins in the mid-1960s, when little thought was given to regulating the wild animal trade that supplied research labs, carnivals, game farms, pet stores, and zoos, which were just starting to expand their reptile houses. Things changed in the late 1960s and 1970s, when the federal government tightened the Lacey Act, which limits animal imports; passed the Endangered Species Act; and signed on to CITES, a treaty that lists species around the world whose trade is banned or restricted. These limits didn't hamper Smith's protagonists, the audacious reptile traders Hank Molt and his nemesis, Tommy Crutchfield; instead, they inspired greater creativity.

As kids, Crutchfield and Molt loved snakes. But as the years pass, their passion morphs into obsession. Often working to swindle each other out of rare and beautiful creatures, the pair habitually lie, steal, cheat, assault, forge, harass, and intimidate. Molt hangs out with prostitutes, frequents strip clubs, and drinks way too much. In his wake, he leaves unpaid bills, compromised evidence, and shattered relationships. He commits mail, credit-card, and customs fraud. Success enriches Crutchfield, but the congenitally inept Molt makes one bad decision after another. A made-for-the-movies character, he admits, "We were all knowingly involved in criminal activities. Our senses of guilt and stuff were quite diminished compared to normal people."

Smith briskly covers the legal and social history of the snake trade, including how reptiles became a commodity divorced from science and zoos. And she shows us how smugglers actually work -- the false-bottomed trunks, doctored permits, and faked credentials.

She also touches upon the trade's environmental impact. Yes, the ransacking of a nation's natural heritage -- and the endless parade of creatures starved, battered, frozen, baked, and smothered while in transit -- is morally reprehensible. But reptile smugglers dealt only in small quantities of valuable animals, Smith writes, while the legal reptile trade, which stocks huge chains like Petco and PetSmart, had the potential to wipe out entire populations. Even so, she notes depressingly, "reptile smuggling was an environmental pinprick next to the carnage wrought daily by mining, logging, and conversion of wilderness to farmland."

Stolen World is almost all plot, delivered fast and hilariously deadpan, without a great deal of reflection. Smith's characters bounce from scheme to scheme, each with his own defense. Dealers in legal exotics claim their animals inspire hobbyists to pursue work in science and conservation; captive breeders say their trade is biologically neutral (unless, that is, animals escape -- or are dumped -- and then prey on rare natives).

And then there are the zoos, some of which used to sponsor dealers' collecting trips. As public opinion turned against the importation of rare or endangered species, zoos distanced themselves from smugglers. But some still dealt with them covertly (giving smugglers "surplus animals," for example), even while applauding stricter wildlife laws. And why not? Contraband intercepted at airports was frequently handed over to nearby zoos.

Stolen World makes a convincing case that "the romance of the snake" is stronger than any threat of incarceration or of retaliation at the hands of traders cheated out of specimens or cash. Over and again, Molt and Crutchfield -- broke, indicted, in poor health -- head into the bush after suckering another wealthy snake enthusiast. A lot of Smith's material seems too good to check, and Molt is clearly an unreliable narrator. Still, in a world where zookeepers lubricate the work of smugglers, and vice versa, and smugglers claim they're actually rescuing wild animals from becoming bush meat, it's almost refreshing to hear Molt admit that while reptiles themselves are cool, the drama of procuring them is way cooler. Both he and Crutchfield did time -- in the 1980s and 1990s, respectively -- for violating federal laws, but neither has, to date, quit the viper trade.