One of these tours, put on by the local travel agency, takes in San Diego, Los Angeles, and Las Vegas.  Folks on this tour always seem to get pictures of themselves sunning on the beach or around the pool in January, just to irk their friends back home.  It might not be a nice thing to do, but believe me, if things were on the other foot, nothing would change.

Steve Olafson was just a couple of years out of high school and working for the roadcrews during the warmer months when he decided to take this particular package tour.  He'd just broken up with his girlfriend, who was now attending college, and felt like getting away.  So, from San Diego and Los Angeles, he sent his friends pictures of himself sunning at the beach, the great wide ocean disappearing past long, tanned legs and skimpy bikinis.  He sent more sedate pictures back to his parents - of him at Olvera Street, standing by the mission at San Diego, and inside the Glass Chapel built by Frank Lloyd Wright.  He promised his parents he'd be careful in 'Lost Wages', while promising friends that he'd drop a quarter or a dollar for them in the slots.

Even after the vastness of California, Las Vegas overwhelmed Steve and the others on the tour who hadn't been before.  Bright lights up and down the strip, imaginative casinos so different from the no-nonsense places back home, astounded them.  Just the rush of cars and people walking in the artificial day created by thousands of lights and streetlights were enough to make them all feel reckless, party to something spectacular.

So, after having supper with a floor show, Steve began his betting.  Gunther Speares had asked him to play a number on the roulette wheel for him, so he got his turn and played Gunther's number.  Nothing came of that, the bright chip fading down the table to someone else's pile.  Sorry, Gunther.

Martha Olson had asked for a try at Blackjack.  Steve took his place at the table and played agressively; after all, it was Martha's money.  To his surprise, he won, and pocketed Martha's half.

Blackjack was his game that night.  Steve gambled his share of Martha's win and doubled, then tripled his earnings.  People were watching him.  A beautiful woman came up and sat on the stool beside him, leaning her arm over his shouder.

Chips were piling up.  Steve pushed the edge, after all, he wouldn't have had this money if he'd lost that first round anyway, it was free to play with.  But after a while, his mother's frugal teachings caught up with him and he retired from the table.

The beautiful woman followed him.

"You were on a streak back there,"  she said, sitting down beside him at the restaurant.  "Why'd you quit?"

Steve shrugged.  "Just got cautious," he answered, and smiled shyly.

The woman seemed to like his smile.  She smiled back and put her hand on his wrist.  "My name's Penny,"  she said, "what's yours?"

"Steve."

"Where you from, Steve?"

'Prairie Cross.  You've probably never heard of it.  It's out in the middle of the upper plains."

"Sounds interesting."

Since he wasn't playing any more, and since his winnings couldn't be called magnificent by Las Vegas standards, Steve thought he'd found a girl who liked him for his smile and his talk.  He settled back into the booth and bought Penny a late dessert and drink, then another drink, then she spotted a round.

This Las Vegas liquor was strong, Steve thought as the room swam.  He didn't object - he barely noticed - when Penny took his hand and led him out of the restaurant.

The world was a blur to Steve.  He hadn't been this drunk since he and Gunther and a couple of the other guys had gotten into Gunther's grandmother's jugs back in high school.  Nothing that swam into view was remembered, he didn't even recall where Penny led him.

All he thought was that he'd passed out in a taxi, or on a couch in some lobby somewhere.  His head was clearing up, and he felt cold.  That he was laying down and not sitting up or standing was proved by the feel of sheets at his back.  He opened his eyes and looked around.

The room was cheap.  Fiberboard furniture, television bolted to the wall, big-weave materials for drapes and bedspread, and the silvery chrome of the IV pole...

Steve tried to clear his head.  Had he been in an accident?  Where was Penny?  What was going on?  He sat up, disturbing the tube poking into his hand.  He was alone.

First things first.  Steve reached over to the side of the bed and dialed the number on the phone.  A voice answered him:

Where was he?

Las Vegas.

No, what hotel?

Hotel?  That's rich.  Come on, Buddy, time to check out anyway... you owe...

Owe?  Steve almost retched when he heard that he owed for a full night and overtime at a little motel off the strip.  He sat up and demanded to know why he was wearing an IV.  The voice on the other end of the phone stopped snickering at him and told him to stay put.

In another minute or two the master key was in the lock and the desk clerk was in the room.

"I've called the cops,"  he said, standing as far away from the bed as he could get.  "Don't move."

Outside, Steve could already hear the sirens as the police pulled into the lot.  The clerk went out to direct them.

Steve was checked out at a hospital.  Sure enough, his friend Penny had been part of an international ring that would prey on vacationers in Las Vegas and other resorts, getting them to drink with them so they could slip them an anasthetic, then take them off to steal one of their kidneys.

The police promised to review tapes from the casino to see if they could get an ID on Penny.  But they doubted if they could.  With their apologies and not much more, Steve was sent back to Prairie Cross.

"Yea, don't trust strangers,"  Steve always says.  He motions to his scar, now healed and rosey-pink.  "If you think you're impressing them, they're probably not impressed the way you think."