Pimping? Why kid himself? From time to time some of the male tourists he ran into would furtively ask his advice about picking up a professional. Invariably, Shell gave good advice, even though the man was most often married. Occasionally, the girls offered him a cut. Wasn’t that pimping? Just because he didn’t stand on a corner whispering to passing men didn’t mean he wasn’t pimping. And what came next, when you’d gone this far? Tout, gigolo, pimp. What was preventing that final step, out-and-out thief? He emerged from the gardens onto the Quai des Tuileries and turned left, passing the endless bookstalls along the quayside with their mélange of second-hand books, old prints, decorative maps—and pornography. Some of the stall owners nodded or called to him. Shell got a fifty per cent kickback from these peddlers of filth in print. It could mount up. A smirking, half-ashamed American tourist would spend fantastic amounts for the privilege of reading four-letter words, or looking at completely nude photographs. The French had some strange ideas pertaining to dirty books. They were strict about such material written in French, but couldn’t care less what you published in English or some other foreign language...