“There were about a dozen rich black people on that program,” Eugene Tucker said. “A lot of guys in the slammer with me just hooted at the TV and called them all Uncle Toms. But I started thinking. If some people on that show could make it in a white world, why couldn’t I? I was just as clever and smart as any of them, maybe even smarter than some. It was a completely new image of a black man to me, a whole new idea, like a light bulb going on in my head. Los Angeles was my home. If it really offered a better chance, why hadn’t I taken advantage of it? Sure, maybe some of those people had to act like Uncle Toms on their way to the top. But when you’ve made it, when you’ve got that million in the bank, you’re nobody’s man but your own.” He grinned. “So I decided to get rich.”
“Just like that,” Frank said, impressed.
“Just like that.”
“The power of positive thinking.”
“Realistic thinking,” Tucker corrected.
“Why dress designing?” Tucker asked.
“I took aptitude tests that said I’d do well in design work or any aspect of the art business. So I tried to decide what I’d most enjoy designing. Now, I’ve always liked to choose the clothes my girlfriends wear. I like to go shopping with them. And when they wear an outfit I’ve picked, they get more compliments than when they wear something they chose themselves. So I hooked up with a university program for inmates, and I studied design. Took a lot of business courses, too. When I was finally paroled, I worked for a while at a fast food restaurant. I lived in a cheap rooming house and kept my expenses down. I drew some designs, paid seamstresses to sew up samples, and started hawking my wares. It wasn’t easy at first. Hell, it was damned hard! Every time I got an order from a shop, I walked it to the bank and borrowed money against it to complete the dresses. Man, I was clawing to hold on. But it got better and better. It’s pretty good now. In a year, I’ll open my own shop in a good area. And eventually you’ll see a sign in Beverly Hills that says ‘Eugene Tucker.’ I promise you.”
Tony shook his head. “You’re a remarkable man.”
“Not particularly,” Tucker said. “I’m just living in a remarkable place and a remarkable time.”
Frank was holding the manila envelope that contained the mug shots of Bobby “Angel” Valdez. He tapped it against his knee and looked at Tony and said, “I think maybe we’ve come to the wrong place this time.”
“It sure looks that way,” Tony said.
Tucker slid forward on his chair. “What was it you wanted?”
Tony told him about Bobby Valdez.
“Well,” Tucker said, “I don’t move in the circles I once did, but I’m not completely out of touch either. I donate fifteen or twenty hours of my time every week to Self-Pride. That’s a city-wide anti-drug campaign. I feel sort of like I’ve got debts to pay, you know? A Self-Pride Volunteer spends about half his time talking to kids, the other half working on an information-gathering program, sort of like TIP. You know about TIP?”
“Turn in Pushers,” Tony said.
“Right. They have a number you can call and give anonymous tips about neighborhood drug dealers. Well, we don’t wait for people to call us at Self-Pride. We canvas those neighborhoods where we know pushers work. We go door to door, talk to parents and kids, pump them for anything they know. We build up dossiers on dealers until we feel we’ve really got the goods, then we turn the dossiers over to the LAPD. So if this Valdez is dealing, there’s a chance I’ll know at least a little something about him.”
Frank said, “I have to agree with Tony. You are rather remarkable.”
“Hey, look, I don’t deserve any pats on the back for my work at Self-Pride. I wasn’t asking for congratulations. In my day I created a lot of junkies out of kids who might have done right if I hadn’t been there to steer them wrong. It’s going to take me a long, long time to help enough kids to balance the equation.”