November 19, 2020

Los Panteras Blancas

One of the things a lot of people don’t know about me is that I am a member of a violent and criminal Dominican gang known as Los Panteras Blancas. The White Panthers. We refer to ourselves, as do our rival gangs, just as the Blancas. Which doesn't really make a whole lot of sense to me because if you have the word panther in your gang name you’d think you would want to make it front and center. But not us Blancas. The gang originated in the DR, which is what we gang members call the Dominican Republic, but now has branches in Los Angeles, Phoenix, and Miami. Probably other places too. I’m not exactly an official member. Because that would require a tattoo of a white panther on my chest, a blood oath, and participation in a drive by shooting. I’m more of what you would call an honorary member. Like, if it were a golf club, I could play the course a few times a year but not be allowed to sign for drinks at the bar. That kind of thing.

I was made a member by Hector Alvarez Ramirez. You might have read about him. He’s in jail for... well, if you read about it you know what he is in jail for. But he’s appealing the case so, as a gang member, I really should be operating under the cloak of omertà. Anyway, Hector, if you’re reading this, Toronto says hi. That’s what Hector calls me. Toronto.

Hector thinks I saved his son from drowning. But I did no such thing. Hector, I did no such thing. But Hector thinks I am being modest so I decided it was probably not a good idea to argue with the head of Los Panteras Blancas. If he wants to think I saved his son, who am I to argue.

What happened was I was playing the Cana Golf Club in Punta Cana. It is a beautiful course. Number five is a par 3 where the green actually juts into the sea. And, because of the ocean breezes, you have to aim into the ocean and hope the wind pushes your ball back onto the green. As a result, a lot, and I mean a lot, of balls go into the water. So much so there were usually a couple of kids in rowboats retrieving the balls then selling them back to the tourists - three for twenty bucks. Anyway, I aimed left and my caddy told me I wasn't aiming left enough. So I adjusted and plunked two balls right into the ocean. I had to figure the caddy was getting a cut from the kids but it was such a beautiful golf course and such a stunning hole, that I didn't really care. I gingerly walked down the embankment in order to buy my allotment of balls from the waif in the rowboat. When he got out of the boat, he slipped and fell into the water. To be clear, the water at that spot was barely knee high. I reached down and gave him a hand up. Which is when Hector Alvarez Ramirez arrived on a jet ski. Words were exchanged between the boy who, it turned out, was his son, Hector, and my caddy. Words in Spanish which I did not understand. I stood there hoping a triple bogey and two lost balls was the worse which was going to happen to me. Then Hector stuck out his hand and said “Gracias. You have saved my son from drowning.”

And I said “Oh no. There must be some misunderstanding. I just gave him a hand up. I hit two balls in the water you see.” Then I smiled.

This was followed by another flurry of words and sentences in Spanish. Some, sounding very animated.

Then Hector shook my hand again and said, “You have saved my son.”

At this point I did not know who he was and had never heard of the Blancas. He did have a large tattoo of a white animal, which I now know is a panther, on his chest but I had no way of knowing it was a gang mark and not a result of a night of too much revelling. But, not being a fan of conflict at the best of times, and faced with what can only be described as burning rage emanating from his eyes, I decided my best course of action was just to say “De nada” and move on to the next hole without peeing down my golf shorts.

Which is what I started to do.

But Hector then grabbed my arm and asked me where I was from. I told him I was from Toronto.

He said “Toronto, you are now a Blanco. You are one of us. You are protected anywhere you go. You are a Blanco. You are my brother. Mi hermano.”

I said, “Gracias.” Then he hugged me and said, “Say you are my brother.”

So I said, “You are my brother.” I mean, I actually already have a brother but he doesn't have a tattoo and usually doesn't scare the shit out of me. Then I said “Adios” and went back to my golf cart.

When we got to number six, my caddy said, “Dio Madre. Do you know who that was?” Then he told me. As you can imagine, I had trouble hitting the ball after that and decided to quit after nine.

That was seven years ago. I never heard from Hector again. I have never been back to the Dominican Republic. I don't really know any other Blancas. It’s not as if there is a newsletter or anything. As luck would have it, I don’t really get into much gang related trouble in Boca and, truth be told, I had kinda forgotten all about it. I guess I liked having an insurance policy but was also glad I never had to use it. It was a little like an EpiPen. I was only reminded of it because Hector had been in the news. He was in jail in Miami. Because, well, you know.

Anyway, Lewberg, Goldfarb and I were going to the Capital Grill at the Boca Town Center. It was supposed to be just the three of us but Goldfarb begged us to let him bring his new girlfriend - Yolanda. We liked Yolanda. She was good for Goldfarb. She was good company. Only, she had a tendency to sometimes get a tiny bit hot under the collar. Goldfarb insisted on driving because Yolanda wanted to sit up front. Lewberg didn't care because he preferred not to drive and I, I didn't mind sitting in the back of Goldfarb’s Crown Victoria, it had plenty of room, and it meant I could leave my driving glasses at home, but I knew Goldfarb would not only not valet but he would circle round and round in order to get the best possible spot. Which is what happened. This usually drove me crazy. But this time it was not so bad. He made one lap and then timed it perfectly just as a Mercedes pulled out of a spot right in front of the restaurant. He drove past the spot, as one does in order to back in and just as he began to back up, as you might have guessed, a car behind us made a screeching turn, swooped in and took the spot. Now Lewberg, Goldfarb and I are always perfectly happy to let people steal our spots. This was South Florida after all. You never knew who you could run into. And the Town Center had plenty of spots. But Yolanda was having none of it. She jumped out of the car and unleashed a torrent of insults in English and another language which I think may have been Romanian. The driver of the car, which was a pimped-out muscle car - a Trans Am I think, got out with a few insults of his own. I don't think any were in Romanian. He was tall and shirtless. His chest was covered in tattoos. The three of us got out in order to pull Yolanda back into the car.

He said, “You need to control your chica,” then he flashed a gun. I don't know what kind of gun it was. But it looked big. But I wasn't really looking at his gun. I was looking at the tattoo of a white panther on his chest.

Then, summoning courage I did not have, I said:

“I like your tat amigo.”

And he said “Yeah. Thanks.”

“I have a friend with the same tat. Hector. You know my friend Hector?”

And he said “Hector? I don't think so man.”

And I said, “I think you do. My friend Hector says it’s not polite to steal a brother’s parking spot. Because,” and I now pounded my chest and its non-existent tattoo, “I am your brother man. You hear me. I am your brother and you are my brother.”

And he shrugged his shoulders and said “Ok brother.” Then he got into the Trans Am and pulled out of the spot. Goldfarb got into the Crown Vic and backed it in.

We then went into the Capital Grill and toasted my courage and manliness with their signature Stoli Dollies.

Lewberg said, “That was straight up gangsta.”

I should have let the accolades rain down on me for a little longer but knew it wasn't fair. When the second round of drinks arrived, I came clean and told them all about the golf course in the DR, about Hector, and about being an honorary member of Los Panteras Blancas.

“Wholly shit!” said Yolanda. “You’re a gang member?”

I said “I guess I am. Who would have thought I would find another member at the Boca Town Center? I couldn’t believe it when I saw that tattoo. A white panther!”

Goldfarb said, “You might want to order another drink.”

I said “Yup. Tonight is worth celebrating.”

And Goldfarb said, “No, because that wasn’t a panther you blind fuck, that was a dolphin!”

The end.