Blow Out

- He's got to. It's evidence.
- I can't find him, Terry!

- It's your job, man!
- Don't tell me how to do my goddam job!

He could tell us what he was
really doin' with his camera.

Nobody wants to know. Nobody cares.
No sordid details.
No political assassination. Accident!

This guy's dead. None of this shit's
gonna do him any good now.

This isn't for him! I know he's dead!
Don't you understand? If they can get
away with killing McRyan, who's next?

Who's "they"? First tell me who "they" is.
Is it a communist conspiracy? Or maybe
it's ayatollahs in the street with blowguns.

- Oh, give me a break.
- Save your paranoia for public TV.

Fuck you. I'm leaving.
Put those pictures down, or I'll have you
arrested for withholding evidence.

Is that right?
All right. I'll be at the office all day.
You can get me there.

I'll call you. Don't call me.
- It's Burke, sir.
- What?

It's Burke, sir.
- Burke! What have you done?
- I don't understand the question, sir.

Are you crazy? You were just
supposed to get some pictures of him.

Are you aware of what you're saying, sir?
Where are you?
I'm calling from a secure phone booth.
I suggest you call me back on same.

Excuse me. Is Mr Karp in?
- Could I go in?
- What for?

- I just have to pick up some pictures.
- Are you anybody?

- I'm one of his customers.
- You know, he had a lotta customers.

- You're a reporter, ain't ya?
- No.

- You want Karp's film.
- I don't know what you're talking about.