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"Jailhouse Rock"
"No one's lookin', now's our chance to make a break"
- Elvis Presley
Hopper paced the floor while Murray and the Russian jabbered back and forth. Of all the people to have to trust! He had no idea if what this guy was going to tell him the Russian said would be accurate, he had no idea what the hell the Russians were doing in Hawkins and didn't trust that the Russian was going to tell Murray the truth about it anyway—the whole thing was an exercise in frustration that he really did not need.
Eventually, he realized that the room was silent. He stopped his pacing and saw the Russian, Murray, and Joyce all staring at him. "What? Is he ready to talk? Joyce, ask him some questions."
Joyce leaned forward, but before she could speak, Murray held up a finger for her to wait.
"He wants Burger King."
"What?" Hopper repeated, staring at Murray like he was still speaking Russian. "What does what he wants have to do with anything?"
"You want him to talk, he wants Burger King," Murray explained, very slowly, as if Hopper was a small child. "And a cherry Slurpee."
"You have got to be kidding."
"Hop, he's right. You have to … grease the wheels. Besides, I could use a burger, too," Joyce added.
He glared at all three of them, but none of them seemed intimidated in the least. "Fine," he snapped, grabbing the keys.
"Don't you want his order?" Murray asked.
"Order? What does this look like, Shangri-La? He'll get what I get him."
"What exactly is the point of going if you're not going to get him what he wants?" Joyce asked.
Hopper stifled some rude words. "Fine! What the hell do you want?" he shouted at the Russian.
Unmoved by Hopper's anger, the Russian relayed his order to Murray, who shared it with Hopper. Hopper didn't bother to write it down. He wasn't going to act like he was at this asshole's beck and call. Once Murray was done speaking, he stomped out to the car.
When he pulled back in, he was somewhat calmer. The drive had helped, the cigarettes he had smoked on the way had helped, the fresh air had helped. It was cleaner and more normal inside Murray's than he had anticipated, but it still smelled … musty.
Inside, he unpacked it all, not particularly carefully, in front of the Russian, who sat there smiling and watching Woody Woodpecker like he was the king of the world. "Two Whoppers. Extra ketchup. Large fry. Pack of Marlboro Reds, and one extra-large Slurpee."
Grabbing his own burger, Hopper sank down on the couch next to Joyce, while the Russian sat forward and started in on his food. "Burger King is nowhere near the 7-11, by the way," he said sourly to Murray.
"Never said it was." Murray smiled at him as though somehow he and the Russian were a team now, coming together to drive Hopper crazy. Well, it wouldn't take much.
"Let's try this again. Joyce."
Joyce leaned forward, trying to make eye contact with the Russian. "Alexi. The generators—what are they powering?"
"And tell him that we know it is not the Starcourt Mall, so he can stop selling us that crap."
Murray let loose a stream of Russian. Halfway through, Smirnoff took a sip of his Slurpee and proceeded to spit it out all over the carpet before spouting off more Russian back to Murray.
"What'd he say?"
"He says, it's strawberry." Again with the smile, wider this time, like suddenly Murray was a Russian sympathizer.
"I'm sorry?"
"His Slurpee. He says it's strawberry."
"So what?"
"Hop. He did ask for cherry," Joyce pointed out.
"Well, they didn't have cherry. They didn't have it. And it doesn't matter, because it all tastes the same, okay? It is sugar, on ice. You tell him that."
"Tell him what?"
"You tell him that it all tastes the goddamned same!"
Murray dutifully translated, much more calmly than Hopper would have liked and listened to the response. "He respectfully disagrees. It's not the same at all, and he would like cherry."
While Murray was relaying his message, Smirnoff's attention was back on the TV, and he started laughing at something on the screen. He didn't care if it was cherry. He was just fucking with them because he could, and Hopper had had enough. "Yeah. You tell him, he can forget it."
When he heard Murray's translation, Alexi's eyes shifted to look at Hopper for the first time. Now they were getting somewhere. He had the guy's attention. But only for a moment. Another comment in Russian, and his eyes were back on the TV. His laugh at the woodpecker's antics seemed forced, but it got the point across.
"He says: 'No cherry, no deal.'"
Hopper nodded, sitting forward. Of course he did. He took a moment, gauging his next move, and then he exploded off the couch and grabbed the Russian, hauling him out of the chair and across the table, heedless of the food, while Joyce and Murray jumped up and started shouting.
Hopper yanked Smirnoff back into the recliner, tipping it until his head almost hit the floor. Then he pulled him up out of the chair and marched him to the door. "I'm just giving him an opportunity to get his own damn cherry Slurpee!" He measured out the last words as he unlocked the door and pushed Smirnoff out into the parking area, shoving him across so he fell, his glasses clattering on the concrete. Hopper threw the car keys after him, then tossed the handcuff keys into the air, catching them and whipping them at Smirnoff, before retreating inside and slamming the door.
Both Joyce and Murray looked at him like he was absolutely nuts. "Jim, that man is an enemy of the state."
"And he's been jerking us around for a full day! I get him his cherry Slurpee, then what? He wants a helicopter to charter him to his own private island. I have dealt with assholes like this my entire life." He took a moment to calm himself before explaining more fully. "Yesterday in the woods, he could have escaped, but he didn't. He stuck with us. Why do you think that is? It's because he's scared. He's scared! Not of us—of them. He's scared of that seven-foot-tall Russian freak who could have killed him just as easily as us. Smirnoff knows that if he runs back to his comrades without a scratch on him, they're gonna think that he spilled his guts. So whether he likes it or not, we are the best chance he's got. I give him thirty seconds before he comes knockin' on that door, right back into our arms, with a new sense of humility."
He took his time, he really sold it to them, feeling confident, even cocky, about how right he was. Right up until they heard through the open window the unmistakable sounds of Smirnoff starting the car.
"Jim. I, uh, believe he has started the car," Murray pointed out unnecessarily.
Joyce frowned at him. "Hopper."
"Testing us. He's just calling my bluff." He wished he was as sure as he sounded.
Through the window, they heard the car in motion.
"I believe he is now driving away." As if the car's engine was Russian and Hopper needed a goddamned interpreter.
He shook his head. This had to work. He had to be right. One damned thing had to go right today.
Joyce growled and headed for the door, but Hopper moved to block her. "Jim. Jim, move." She was serious—she never called him by his first name.
"Joyce," he protested, "Joyce," but she screamed "Move!" at him and shoved him out of the way so she could open the door and run after the Russian.
Hopper followed her and Murray more slowly, and was not surprised to see the car parked in the entrance, not moving, while Smirnoff weighed his options.
Then the brake lights flashed as the Russian changed gears, and the car slowly backed into the parking lot, and Alexi got out, handing the keys back to Hopper as he went back inside, muttering something as he passed.
Grinning smugly at both of them, Hopper pocketed the keys. "I'm sorry, what did he say?"
"He says he likes strawberry, too."
Hopper looked at Joyce, feeling on top of things all of a sudden. It was such a rare feeling, and so intoxicating, that if things were slightly different—or if either one of them had had a shower in the last two days—he would have kissed her. Instead, he settled for a wink and a hand on her shoulder, gently leading her back inside. "Then let's get started, shall we?"