As the chemical fog descends over my eyes, a last cogent spark flashes in my brain, and I take out the phone again. I’m in no state to hassle with directory assistance, so I plug into an entirely different connection. Ron Epstein works Page Six at the New York Post; he’s a human who’s who of the city. Like Daniel Baxter, he’s addicted to his work, which means he’s probably there now, despite the early hour in New York. When the Post operator puts me through to his section, he answers.

“Ron? It’s Jordan Glass.”

“Jordan! Where are you?”

“On my way to New York.”

He responds with a giggle. “I thought you were off in the hinterlands, taking pictures of clouds or something.”

“I was.”

“You must need something. You never call just to kibitz.”

“Christopher Wingate. Ever heard of him?”

“Naturellement. Very chic, very cool. He’s made Fifteenth Street the envy of SoHo. The old dealers kiss his ass now, and the more they do, the more he treats them like shit. Everyone wants Wingate to handle their stuff, but he’s very picky.”

“What about the Sleeping Women?”

A coo of admiration. “Aren’t you in the circle. Not many American collectors know about them yet.”

“I want to see him. Wingate, I mean.”

“To photograph him?”

“I just want to talk to him.”

“I’d say you have to stand in line, but he might just be intrigued enough to talk to you.”

“Can you get me his phone number?”

“If I can’t, no one can. But it may take a while. I know he’s not listed. He lives above his gallery, but I don’t think the gallery’s listed either. It’s that exclusive. This guy will skip a sale just because he doesn’t like the buyer. Are you somewhere I can call you?”

“No. Can I call you tomorrow? I’m going to sleep for a while.”