The Clinton Coming

By Marcus Baldwin

In 1997, Clearwater, Florida was just coming off a tumultuous riot after a young black man was shot and killed by the police. A hotbed of racial tension, drug dealing gangs, the headquarters of The Black Socialist Party, Scientology, and every latest P.C. social engineering program, with church, academic and political leaders all seeking federal aid money, the city was simmering toward a fresh eruption. Into this midst came President Clinton, making a visit to dole out those dollars.

"The Clinton Coming" is a gripping novel that follows the lives of those who found themselves in the trenches of those volatile times. Anwar Branch is a young black preacher whose love interest and best friend is Sonja Macetti, the daughter of an ex-vice cop, Mike Macetti, who is now a car salesman and leader of a white militia. They clash head on with the drug dealing, gang banging Crips and the Black Socialist Party, both holding Clearwater hostage to their crime and violence. Get ready to dive headfirst into some of the tensest years of the 20th century that are still profoundly relevant today.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Apr 21, 2022
• ISBN: 9781667839615

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Copyright 2022

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

ISBN: 978-1-66783-960-8 (softcover)

ISBN: 978-1-66783-961-5 (eBook)

Contents

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Dedication

To all who have struggled and believed, kept the faith and shined a light.

Epigraphs

anyone lived in a pretty how town

(with up so floating many bells down)

spring summer autumn winter

he sang his didn’t he danced his did.

—e. e. cummings

I had to stay in the house a lot because my Mom didn’t want to see me on the news. I wasn’t a bad child. She just didn’t want me in the wrong place at the wrong time.

—Bam Adebayo

Aw, you tuff? You ain’t really tough.

—King Von

Can’t we all just get along?

—Rodney King

1

The traffic whizzing through the heat waves coming off Ft. Harrison Street kicked up a steady swirl of exhaust fumes in their faces. They were standing on the first of the twenty steps leading up to the front door of his church. Squinting into the camcorder Sonja had pointed at him, Anwar was losing patience for it—for all of it.

Don’t call me Reverend, I told you, said Anwar. I’m not a reverend yet.

Okay, alright, said Sonja. We’ll start over.

She rewound the tape.

This isn’t maybe such a good idea anyway, he said. He wiped his forehead with a towel for the third time.

You look fine, said Sonja. Quit complaining about the heat. How would you survive in Africa if the Aryans sent you back?

Very funny. I’m serious. We’re messing around with stuff we shouldn’t be.

Sonja lowered the camera and zapped him with her killer stare: those phat blue eyes set back in that criminally pretty face were making him lose his homeboy mind. As usual.

We make the tape, take it by the TV stations, and then step back and let them do their job. We’ll be out of it. Nobody’ll know it was us who started it.

She cocked her body the way she does, aiming like an AK all that stuff crammed in her tight tank top and short shorts, like all of her was daring you to argue. Anwar had plenty to say but couldn’t right then what with one of his GED homies strutting up the sidewalk.

Wassup, cuz? said Devon.

God, said Anwar, signing the God-Gang finger splay to the sky. Devon gave it back, but was giving Sonja the big eye too.

Looking good babe.

Sonja just smiled at him. Not cold, not hot. Just this neutral, room temp grin like some model gives a camera.

How your studies coming? asked Anwar.

Phat. No problem. Devon nodded, flipping his face gaze up and down Sonja a few more cycles before hip hopping up the steps and inside the church.

Don’t tell me he’s in your GED program.

Told.

But he’s practically a moron!

He’ll be all right.

And you’re gonna pull Karney’s chain and get him into Bayshore? Tell me you’re not.

We got the funding...

The Clinton quota money.

It’s there. That’s the deal. I mean, Affirmative Action calls for it...

But...Anwar...come on. Don’t you have any standards? You know Devon doesn’t belong in college. He couldn’t do the work.

Now you sound like that Graglia, what’s his name, that law professor in Texas who said blacks can’t compete with whites.

He didn’t say that exactly.

Close enough.

You’re playing the race card again, Anwar.

When it’s true, I’ll play it.

You and Jesse Jackson, stoking the class war flames.

Don’t be dogging Jesse now.

He’s yelling how Graglia’s a racist and he’s not. He’s stating facts. I mean, look what’s happening at Bayshore. Thanks to you and Karney and Clinton. I mean, take Leonard for instance. You see how he struggles in Dr. Bentley’s class. You ever see the look on his face? Like he’s drowning or something.

That’s not because he’s black. A lotta people are struggling in Bentley’s class. He’s such a...white man.

Conservative, you mean?

Don’t get me started now.

He’s a good professor.

Yeah, uh-huh. I see what’s going on with you and him. Don’t think I don’t.

What?

Play dumb, uh-huh. Bimbo Sonja.

What are you saying?

Just...let’s just...forget it, okay?

He’s a nice guy. I like him. So what?

So what. Right. Let’s just make the tape, okay?

Sonja stared him down. Those eyes like blazing blue skies. Like the fire of God gonna tear open the blue curtain and rip right through with eternity’s cleansing crimson flames.

Anwar felt that tightening, throbbing ache in his everyman again. He wanted to tell her off, throw her down, thrash her, love her. Drill some sense into her. But when she raised the camcorder and the red light started blinking, he had to suck it up and be a Man of God.

I’m Anwar Branch, he said. No smile: serious biz. Assistant Pastor of the First New Church of Christ you see behind me. We have a problem in our city here that we feel hasn’t been properly addressed by the media. Just south of us, as you can see...

Sonja swung the camcorder around to follow his narration.

...is the local headquarters of the Black Zimbawas.

Anwar bent down and picked up their paper from the steps. He held it up to the camcorder.

"This is their newspaper, The Black Revolution. The ‘Voice of the Global African Uprising...The Black Socialist Party.’ In here they advocate revolution against all whites and against the government of the United States. They want a race war."

Sonja zoomed in on their headquarters on the next block south.

They don’t like my mother, Dr. Olivia Branch, our Pastor, talking about them in her sermons and interviews.

He paused a minute, thinking like, what next? What was the point? Okay, uh, let’s see...

Lyons, said Sonja.

No, no.

A couple blocks down the street, said Sonja, zooming, you can’t see it, is the Bethel Baptist Church of Reverend Henry Lyons, who is currently in trouble for taking church money and buying houses with a woman he’s having an affair with.

Sonja cut and lowered the camcorder.

Why’d you do that? asked Anwar. You know we’re just gonna have to edit it out.

What’s the difference between The Lion King and Reverend Henry Lyons?

Is this a joke?

No, she said, pinching her mouth at the corners, fading him with sarcasm. I really want to know.

I don’t know. What’s the difference? This better not be racist.

One’s an African lion and the other’s a lying African. She smiled big, flashing them all-happy-with-herself teeth.

That is racist.

So?

‘So’?

Yeah, so?

So…‘lying African’ means ‘lying nigger.’ You know that.

No, it doesn’t.

Yeah, it does.

Chill out, Anwar, willya? Geez. Don’t take things so personally. That’s the problem with you and so many other blacks: you’re too damn sensitive. You gotta lighten up.

You try coming from slavery and lightening up.

Give me a break, she said, emphasizing every word. Now you sound like Clinton: let’s apologize for slavery. ‘I’m sorry for slavery.’ Like I had anything to do with it.

Your attitude’s the same.

It is not! You can’t name another white person less prejudiced than me.

That’s my point. If you’re the best we got, we’re still slaves.

Jesus, Anwar.

Don’t take the Lord’s name in vain. How many times I got to tell you that?

She wasn’t listening. He’d lost her attention to some pickup truck passing slowly by on the other side of the street, some fat ass redneck leaning out the window, smiling at her, waving fingers fat as sausages, playing keys in the air, ignoring the horns honking behind him.

Shit, said Sonja.

Who is that?

You don’t wanna know.

The redneck pointed an index finger like a gun at Anwar and ‘shot’ three times, smiling all the while, before finally speeding away.

What was that all about?

Just...some asshole harassing me. Let’s make the damn tape.

She raised the camcorder again.

That was bad, Sonja. Tell me.

She lowered the camcorder. Looked nervous, evasive.

Just some creep who asked me out and I said no and now he’s...harassing me, like I said. That’s all.

What’s his name?

I don’t know. He’s just some stupid creep. Don’t worry about it.

I am worried. How can I not worry about you? I love you.

Yeah, I know, I know. Thanks. I love you too. Now can we finish the tape? Please?

She lifted the camcorder again. Blinking light on. His head blinking red, on and off. No use trying to get anything out of her she wasn’t ready to release. Anwar’d learned you couldn’t reason with a phat white woman. Least of all Sonja.

Okay. So, that about Henry Lyons is just interesting. But...besides the Zimbawas being right across from us almost, just around the corner east on Cleveland Street, are the Crips, slanging dope. Ever since the 96 riots when Tyron Lewis was shot, the Zimbawas and the gangs control this part of Clearwater. Except for the token ride by, the police stay out. They’re afraid any kind of incident might spark another riot, which is bad for tourism on the beach, just across the bay but a million miles away.

Anwar wiped his brow again and took a deep breath.

Now, I’m not saying that the Zimbawas and the Crips and the police are all in biz...

Don’t forget Lyons.

He’s not in on it.

Don’t be so sure.

He’s not in on it.

Whatever you say.

...anyway...they got some kind of something going on—not Lyons, but the others—and we’re trying to figure out what it is. We’re tired of this in our community and we’d like someone to investigate it. Cut.

Sonja cut and lowered the camcorder.

Okay, she said. Done deal.

A car full of homies passed and shouted a bunch of vulgar shit at Sonja. She ignored them and headed round the corner toward the parking lot.

But right behind the homies, another car rolled slowly by, just slowly enough to catch Anwar’s attention just in time: heads in ski masks, hands holding guns coming out of the windows, the car slowing down even more and him feeling frozen, unable to react or move fast enough, the guns pointed right at him…and suddenly he was tackled hard around the middle, like when he played football back in high school after catching a pass and a safety exploded into him and he went flying, crashing hard down in the dirt and rocks behind a thick stand of palm trees, Sonja on top of him, bullets exploding into the pavement, the trees, everything, Sonja on her knees straddling him, firing her Glock and hitting the car a few times as it sped away.

She stood up fast, still eyeballing the car, slipping the gun back into her back pants, pulling her shirt down over it. Fast. Practiced. Professional. The car sped around the corner and out of sight.

The traffic all slowed down now, dozens of cars with people gawking out their windows at them. A few zombie Scientologists across the street froze, staring, scribbling frantically on their clipboards.

Come on.

Sonja ran down the side street, Anwar after her. They hunkered down behind the wall in the parking lot behind the church. Listening, looking. Déjà vu. L.A. all over again.

How does this always happen to us? she laughed. Laughed. Don’t dare tell my Dad about this, she said.

They almost killed us.

Almost. She took deep breath. Now you see what I’m talking about? You saw all the blue, right? Even got a blue friggin Toyota. They’re so stupid.

Crips.

Uh-huh. She looked at her watch. Shit. Look at the time. Gotta stick to the plan. I’m heading over to Cleveland to video them, she said, matter-of-factly, like they were a flock of birds or a parade or some shit. If they’re back yet, that is.

She stood up and strode to her car—the long legs, the blond hair. Any other woman looking like her be heading to the mall on a day like this. Down with some new clothes or a manicure or some shit.

Woman…you are… he stammered, not knowing what she was. Is.

Yeah, I am. You coming with?

2

Mike Macetti pulled his Grand Am demo onto the back lot of Malek Pontiac. He cut the engine and sat there a minute trying to get up the desire to get out and go to work. You’d think after seven years he’d have gotten used to selling cars, but he never had.

He looked out over the car lot and envisioned the day’s ups stroking him over, him smiling, cajoling, talking, talk talk talking, all the damn talking. And for what? To make a living. When he had a living made until he screwed up way back when before the beginning of his long time doing the car lot jag and jostle.

But that was just belaboring the labor, screwing with his own head by dwelling on how screwed he was.

It was gonna be another long day short on patience. Macetti could feel it in his gut, something building up and coming over him like a red-hot heartburn.

He walked past the lot boy, painting over graffiti on the showroom walls, to the front lot where Ernie and Jimmy were inspecting the inventory. Every morning, they walked up and down the rows of cars, checking for the handiwork of vandals.

Ernie bent over and picked up a needle, held it gingerly between two fingers and dropped it into a Hefty bag Jimmy held open for him.

Busy night, said Ernie. He picked up another needle and held it up for Macetti to see. Six cars keyed, a few headlights smashed, a half-dozen needles.

See why I cut my hair? said Jimmy. He scowled into the raging sun.

Sonja doesn’t like it, said Macetti. He wiped his face with a handkerchief. Just two minutes outside and his back was drenched in sweat.

She tell you that? What’d she say exactly?

Told me she’s breaking up with you. I’m getting out of this heat.

Macetti walked toward the showroom, sucking hard for air. Days like this he really missed LaJolla’s dry heat and cool Pacific breezes.

She won’t, whined Jimmy, following after him. She’ll get used to it. Don’t you think?

Can’t tell with women.

I admire your patriotism, son, said Ernie. He fell in step beside Macetti, like they were marching together, pathetic little salesman soldiers in the car lot wars. I always have. But you can’t sell cars to people who are uncomfortable with you. Tell him, Mike.

A low profile’s more effective.

I like a high profile. I want people to know who I am. Besides, niggers are scared shitless of skins.

But that’s the point, said Ernie. I don’t want the niggers to be scared of us here. We’re trying to sell cars to niggers. Niggers are some of our best customers, in case you hadn’t noticed. You got to learn to separate the business from the battle.

Inside, they got sodas from the machine and stood before the showroom window watching the traffic, waiting for customers.

In the vacant lot directly across Cleveland Street, the Crips began gathering, almost spontaneously, like maggots out of rotting meat. As if by appointment, cars started pulling over to do business.

I’m calling the P.D., said Jimmy.

Don’t waste your time, said Ernie. They’ll only crank up the sirens three blocks away. Give them plenty of time to scatter. Like they always do.

I keep telling ya, I saw the same thing happen in L.A., said Macetti. After the King riots in 92, gangs had free reign. Those who did get arrested, got acquitted. Juries were afraid guilty verdicts would start another riot. That’s the main reason O.J. got off in the first place. Cochran told the jury to send a message to whites. So they did. Same thing’s happening here.

How long we gonna put up with this shit?

Jimmy stared at his father, as if Ernie were the one standing in the way of social justice.

I didn’t want to tell you this, said Ernie, but the Equal Opportunity goons came calling yesterday.

You’re shitting me, said Jimmy.

Says we got to hire more...minorities. He spoke slowly, without expression, an anger beyond emotion. I say I got ‘minorities’ working for me. Janitors and lot boys. No good, they say. You gotta have a black salesman, a black receptionist, a black bookkeeper.

Fuck, said Jimmy. He clenched his fists. A vein looked about to burst on his shaved head, some oblong dent in it, like he’d been hammered as a kid. Where does this shit end? Ernie shrugged. Is it our business or theirs? We need to start the war.

You might not wanna put it quite like that, said Macetti.

Jimmy turned to his father. Here he goes again, about to get all sensitive over his nigger friends.

Jimmy, said Ernie.

Swallowing the last of his Pepsi, Macetti squeezed the can til it squealed. He breathed deeply and stared through the crisscrossing cars at the gangsters doing their deals. The sun danced on the passing cars and baked the pavement. Heat waves rose and shimmered like a desert mirage. Macetti manufactured a steely smile and spoke slowly to the young man.

You got to learn to discriminate, Jimmy. It’s the Christian thing to do.

Fuck are you talking about?

There are niggers and there are blacks. Not all blacks are niggers.

Jimmy snorted, eyebrows shooting up like jack in the boxes, head spinning to his father.

You believing this?

Listen to the man, said Ernie.

That’s not what the National Alliance says, Jimmy blurted, getting worked up. Or the KKK. Or Aryan Nation. Or...

Everybody’s got their own religion, said Ernie. Their own set of beliefs.

So what are you saying? You’re breaking off from the movement?

Blacks are our biggest customer base, in case you hadn’t noticed.

So you’re just gonna let the gangs run free? Take over?

Now you’re talking like a woman.

Jimmy turned to Macetti. This is your doing, ain’t it? You put him up to this.

Don’t be giving Mike any shit.

Ya’ll are getting soft in your old age.

Ernie shrugged at Macetti: ‘What are you gonna do?’

Lemme get this straight, said Jimmy, looking like he was trying not to glare at Macetti. Let’s take Anwar, for an example. Are you saying Anwar’s not a nigger?

Anwar is a black.

A black?

That’s right.

So...that mean you think it’s okay for him to date Sonja?

What do you think?

Well...you let her hang with him.

They go way back. You know that. But she doesn’t date him. She’s dating you, last I heard.

That’s right. Jimmy nodded. She damn sure is. He kept on nodding, like one of those wooden heads on springs. Big eyes and a baseball cap. The possibility he might become a son-in-law made Macetti think some bad things. But he kept his mouth shut. The politic thing to do.

An old Dodge Aries drove on the lot and an old black man got out. Could hardly move.

Which one of you hotshots want him? asked Ernie.

I’ll take him, said Jimmy. What the fuck.

Stick him in the Hundai or the Renault. We gotta move those sleds.

Right.

Bury his ass, son, said Ernie, clapping his hands. You can do it now. Let’s put a unit on the board this morning here. Fast start.

Jimmy blew out the door with a backward wave to his father. He greeted the old black guy and quickly waltzed him toward the back lot where they parked the wholesale crap.

Macetti stared straight ahead, facing the traffic, crossed arms, waiting. Ernie did the same.

Silence.

Waiting in silence. The long wait of the car salesman. Only Ernie was waiting for customers and Macetti was waiting for something else.

He checked his watch: it was time.

He watched the cars that pulled over to do gang business.

It wasn’t