From "The Plot Against Marlene Dietrich" by Henry F. Mazel

Rada shrugged. “I read the papers. And I go to the pictures. So?”
    
     “That why you here? One of them vaudeville stars you joined at the hip with – they have somethin' to do with this? You know the darky, too?" Detective Impolitari asked.

     “Never saw him before.”

     “Don’t hang around with entertainers, huh? I seen you with 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 Old Gold 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.  “ . . . .You could always pin it on the Colored boy, I suppose.”