Deborah Harry, formerly of Hawthorne, New Jersey, sits there. Deborah Harry, who arrived at the Seventies from the Sixties in a Camaro, eats tuna salad from a little cardboard container with a little plastic fork. Deborah Harry scratches her knee and speaks.

"Sorry I'm late," she says. She gestures toward the tuna salad in vague defense. The tuna is silent.

"How old are you?" I ask.

"I'm not telling." She laughs. The tuna doesn't.

"Come on. I won't snitch." I have made three different bets around town that I could get her to reveal her age. I'll bet on anything. Even broads.

"No, I'm not telling." She doesn't laugh this time.

"Why not? You can't be that old. You still menstruate, don't you?"

It's a Mexican stand-off. Thirty bucks down the drain. Maybe I can win it back at three-card monte. Life's like that. I pour grape juice into a coffee mug. I add club soda. I take a sip and light a Camel. Next question.

"Do you plan to still be rocking when you're 40?"

"I don't know. If I still have legs, I guess."

"Your legs. They're great. Do you shave them, or do you wax them?"