it's my party -- we'll be late. you called it a "strange war" and an "endless story." if you filed that story for me, i'd say you were editorialishing.
drunk? only with the memories of making love with you on the plains of fianga as the first army of liberation marched in and opened fire.
right.
christ, i don't want to go to this stupid party. i'm bad at false modesty.
you can work out of the east coast. we'll get a place on long island and burn our suitcases.
every saturday night we'll have a party.  invite all our friends, sit out on the veranda and interview each other.
i haven't. well, god dammit, i'm getting tired of memorizing who's the president of the.  republic of maldives.
yeah, he succeeded mamoon abdul gayeem.
and i'm tired of third world elevators.
don't leave me.
fuck abou deia and new york. i'm going to nicaragua with you.
i've heard it's a neat little war with a nice hotel.
you may be asking yourself what exactly are you doing here in this "strange war, just another chapter in an endless story.  that grinds into its seventh year"
welcome to managua.
well.  i thought of calling your photographs "pictures from a lost war".  i'm great at captions -- the new york editors loved it since none of them knew where the hell chad was anyway -- it legitimized their ignorance, got you a cover, me a feature, and packaged a class struggle in two words. nifty, eh?
i'm sorry.  this is isela cruz. she works for the hotel and helps out as a translator.
my spanish is a little out of shape -- what'd he say?
russell's got a way with words.
it depends who you ask.
you're gonna have a ball.
hands off. i need an interpreter more than you do right now.
i'm hanging in there like an interim post-war government waiting for the palace to be overrun.  by younger men.
congratulations. the bastard won't talk to me.
want me to order you a hot dog and a program?
there's not many piano bars left where i'm still welcome.
if she can't sing in the key of c i'm in trouble.
sometimes i wonder why i spend these lonely nights, dreaming of a song.
tell him we have pictures.
tell him there were pieces of body in the piano, and somebody was singing, "i left my heart in san francisco." what's he got better than that?
forget the pope, charlie. every week you got the pope somewhere. this is a very big story down here because it's the first sign of fighting in managua. yeah, well get a map and look up nicaragua -- ya drive to new orleans and turn left.
like hell i'm editorializing, the whole thing happened in a roomful of c.i.a. and press. what do you want?! how do i know they were c.i.a.? they wore name tags, what do you think? we're backing a fascist again -- i know that ain't news, but see if you can find an angle!
we don't have any pictures of rafael because nobody knows where the son of a bitch is, and anybody crazy enough to go after him.
is liable to get his nuts shot off.
yeah, well g'bye.  who the fuck are you?
who?
how was matagalpa?
you find anything?
oh. how was leon?
yeah.  i'll bet.  claire.
i'm tired of nicaragua.
long enough, lets face it, you were right.  everybody was right.
my cheekbones. what do you think of 'em?
this is a face made for television.
is he a good fuck?
that's a reasonable question for a reporter to ask, isn't it?! i shoulda never come down here, eh? this is the way it's going to be. i'll make a shitload of money in television for just sitting there. i'm gonna show up to work at rockefeller center every morning and they're gonna hand me the news with my coffee and toast. i shoulda never come down here, eh? this war down here belongs to you guys, okay? i'm on tommorrow's plane.
you want to take me to the airport? it's okay. i shoulda never come down here.
take this to check in. i'll be right there.
jesus, where'd you get this?
where else.
we're grownups, russell.  most of us.
no happy snaps.
you're sure about him?
don't get hurt.
yeah?
congratulations.
on what?! the washington post, the times, networks, wire services -- everybody's picked up the picture. it's fabulous.
i came back because of russell.
yeah.  the whole fucking east coast is falling in love with rafael -- they were sure he was dead this time. somebody wants to do a musical about him and his mug's on every t-shirt in central park.
i think he's bigger than farrah fawcett.
i'm happier in new york, sure, things are great. you guys?
it's a great story. i want to talk to rafael.  and you're the only man in the world that can take me to him.
i've got supreme confidence in you.
claire looks good, eh?
since i haven't been able to find isela since coming back, you're going to have to translate for me -- what the hell does that mean?
and she 'thinks' she loves you.
i'd like to know something -- it probably doesn't matter in the great final scheme of things.  but i'm interested.  did you ever lay a hand on her before she left me?
that's the truth?
i bet you go through a few rental cars.
oh my god.
russell, let's get outta here.
who gives you the pictures?
off the record.
didn't you ship the film to new york?
slow down. it wasn't your fault if somebody stole your stuff.
what about rafael?
we drove through three roadblocks a half hour before curfew so you could show me a statue of tacho.
what the hell are you talking about?
well, they don't "seem" to be that great so i can't wait for this one.  hey, here we are! two guys in the tropics in love with the same dame.  bullets flying!
oh yeah? i left the country because of him.  . and i came back because of him.  and now the cutest couple in town has me looking up a horse's ass on a midnight tour of managua. what are we doing here?
in the picture he's dead?
how the hell.
you saw too many bodies? that's a lot of bodies. you stupid son of a bitch. did he talk you into it?
in some way i understand him doing it, i don't like it but i understand.  but you?
you two have, of course, just served me up your balls -- if that's what they're called -- on a platter. i can bury you both. you're handing me your careers.
well, jesus christ.  this is a motherfucking story, russell.  what am i supposed to do with it?
they're holding the lead in the world section for rafael.
oh yeah.  i don't know what to do. i've gotta take some kind of a story back with me. maybe jazy, eh?
ah, danger -- i love it. you could ask the pointy-shoed little bastard about your pictures.  and i could ask him whatever happened to isela.
you mean i slept with a sandinista?
i guess rafael is alive, eh?
jazy's probably sitting in the bar laughing at us. which way's the hotel?
i'll ask her.  be right back.