by JOHN JEFFERSON SELVE It’s the start of summer in Paris. I approach a small-time cocaine dealer of the sort that’s so prevalent nowadays. A 16-year-old kid with the total Uber mind-set: efficient, obliging, and compliant with the realities of his market. He’s fairly quick to admit his own amazement with his profits, since his merchandise is cut with either the lowest-rent speed or an anesthetic, not to mention all the other crap he’d rather not dwell on. It actually makes him laugh to think of how little cocaine there is in what he’s peddling. His phone rings and rings, and he never deigns to answer. Recovering some dignity, he quits chuckling and declares, without conviction, that his “shit” is nevertheless the best in town. There’s competition, sure enough. He tells me about promotional offers, the platform he’s set up, automatic dunning, half-gram sales to “target” the female population and…