“Don’t hang around with entertainers, huh? Just Coloreds with their dingis hangin’ out, right? I seen you around those Bojangles types. I could hold you as a material witness.”
“Oh, c’mon. You’re not going to do anything, how's that goin’ to look, me beating you out here and all. And I took the train.”
“La Guardia and the commissioner ain’t gonna like this, not at all. Hope this isn’t a murder, Rada.”
“Murder? Who said anything about murder?” Rada took a last drag on his smoke and ground it out on the concrete. The swirls of surf pulsating in his ears came into consciousness. It gushed.
He stared off at the sea, wondered about how she died, and about the Negro up the beach. Then there was a quick glance at Detective Impolitari. Rada shrugged. “ . . . .You could always pin it on the Colored boy, I suppose.” . . .
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HENRY MAZEL. . . . . .On fiction writing, psychology and politics
