"Next paycheck I'm getting that mixer," said Itsuki. "And better speakers after that! Man, what good are Technics if the rest of your sound system is ass? I talk to my dad but he doesn't care, it's like it's all the same to him as long as he can hear what's coming out of his karaoke box. The rest is up to me. ...Crap, and I was psyched for that New York garage box set too. A real disc jockey's life is nothing but harsh deprivation, Takumi – hey, are you even listening to me?"
"I don't know why you don't just stick to CDs," Takumi said. "You can listen to them outside of the house, and the music is the same, isn't it?"
Itsuki gave him a look of grave pity.
"I don't expect you to understand," he said. "Listen, are you coming to Iketani-sempai's night at Club Akina or not? It's this Saturday, be there or be square, yeah?"
"Fujiwara Tofu Shop, can I help—"
"Was 'Downhill Ace' you?" said the caller, without preamble. Bunta wedged the cordless phone between shoulder and ear, the time to light a cigarette.
"Ah, Yuichi," he said, exhaling after the first drag. "I have no idea what you're talking about."
"Don't give me any of that," said the record store owner. "You think I can't recognize Fujiwara Bunta's way with an 808? Ten years you were king of the Kantou disco underground, am I supposed to forget that? Kid works at my store drops that track at 1AM on newcomers night and the floor goes amyl-nitrate mental, the week after that it's played every night in every club from here to Yokohama. A month ago people were talking about the Takahashi Brothers' double A-side, now the buzz is nothing but 'Downhill Ace'. And you're sitting there telling me you've got nothing to do with it?"
"If that's all you gotta say, Yuichi—"
"I called Speed Star Records. The guy there says – he claims they put it out as a white label because the master tape fell off the back of an AE86 Trueno. His words."
"I'm hanging up," said Bunta, and did so. He sat and smoked for some moments, squinting at nothing in particular. Eventually he made a snorting sound.
"Amyl-nitrate mental," he said. "Somebody needs to lay off the magazines." The corners of his lips tugged upward.
The phone rang again. Bunta picked up.
"I thought I told—" he began, then paused. "Ah, Satoshi is it? Long time no talk. Didn't know you were in town. ...Same old, same old. And you? I heard that last mix..."