"Um-m-m. But that's safest from his angle. The half dozen or so distributors he sold it to don't try to pass it either. They also are playing it carefully. They peddle it, at say ten to one, to the next rung down the ladder."
"And these are the fellows that pass it, eh?"
"Not even then, usually. These small timers take it and pass it on at five to one to the suckers in the trade, who take the biggest risks. Most of these are professional pushers of the queer, as the term goes. Some, however, are comparative amateurs. Sailors for instance, who buy with the idea of passing it in some foreign port where seamen's money flows fast."
Larry Woolford shifted in his chair. "So what are you building up to?"
Steve Hackett rubbed the end of his pug nose with a forefinger in quick irritation. "Like I say, that's standard counterfeit procedure. We're all set up to meet it, and do a pretty good job. Where we have our difficulties is with amateurs."
Woolford scowled at him.
A dreary short story about a government agent in a society where status depends upon where you live, the car you drive, the clothes you wear, where you went to school, and the places you frequent. It doesn't help that the story's main character is an arrogant ass. Anyway, the story starts out as a counterfeit money investigation then spirals out of control as the conspiracy gets more and more complicated.
I was most sympathetic towards the bad guys. Maybe that was the point of the story.