Ray Comfort's Blog, page 34

LSD

Johnny did need the gun. Not only was his apartment in an area of town that often erupted in violence, but he regularly frequented a nightclub that had a few rough visitors. He didn't want any of them to make unwanted visits, and the gun gave him a sense of security. The nightclub was actually a strip‑joint, but Johnny maintained that he went there more to meet people. "Good conversation," he said.

Furthermore, the apartment was convenient in that it was only two miles from the newspaper where he worked. It also meant that he and his girlfriend Darlene could be alone. Darlene worked at the club and she wasn't the sort of girl one would want to take home to meet mom and dad. She also introduced him to a whole new world--the world of drugs. At first Johnny refused to have anything to do with the scene, but one day she convinced him into trying a new "psychedelic" drug called "LSD." A week earlier he watched her for three hours on a "trip," and listened to her rave about its mind‑opening qualities. When she showed him a newspaper cutting of a number of respected doctors actually recommending it for therapy, he succumbed.

She had also introduced him to Jack, the owner of the Ruby’s nightclub. Mr. Ruby was a quiet man, about 5'6" tall. He was originally a "hustler" from Chicago who liked to wear his black‑banded hat everywhere he went.

It wasn't long before Johnny found himself taking more and more LSD, and during that time there was a subtle change in his personality. It was truly a "mind‑altering" drug. It turned a bright outward personality inward. He also found himself in direct contact with drug dealers who sold more than "acid." They were forever encouraging him to try "smack," the ultimate "rush." Johnny vowed that he had too much self-respect to put a needle into his body, but as time passed LSD changed him even more. He found that without it, life was dull; so dull it became depressing. It didn't occur to him that the drug was causing his depression. Rather, he saw it as the cure.

It was during one of his times of despondency that he decided to go down to the club during the day, rather than to go to work.

The door was partly open, so he walked in to find a man he knew who talked with a lisp. It was because of his lisp that his friends called him "Lips." Lips was a pusher, who, by the way he dressed was obviously successful in his profession. When he saw Johnny open the door he stood to his feet and said,

"Hey Johnny, good to sthee you. What are you doing here at thith time of the day?"

Johnny managed a smile and said,

"I got sick of work. It is boring. Besides, my cash is a little low and I can't afford any acid."

Lips smiled warmly and said,

"Hey man, what are you doing on that junk anyway! I told you, you gotta give sthmack a chanth. It'th the ultimate buzth, I'm not lying to ya."

Johnny didn't say a thing. He just sat there and listened to the salesman do his thing.

"I'll tell you what. I will give you sthome at no costht. " He reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a small folded piece of white paper and an outfit wrapped in plastic, put it on the table and walked off.

To be continued.

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Chapter Sixteen: I Need a Favor

The sight was momentous. More than 200,000 people--peaceful people, filled Washington to demand the passage of civil rights legislation. It was an evening in August 1963, and Jerry watched his television as the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King spoke to a great throng that stood before him. His voice resonated with inspiring conviction.

After the news that night the only words that remained in Jerry's mind were, "I have a dream." His mind flashed back to Otley the night of the fire so long ago, to the dream that he had had that was so vivid. He had often thought about it, and the consequences had he not been awakened by the sound of Faithful, his barking dog.

Suddenly, his thoughts were broken a car pulling up the driveway. A few minutes later, the key turned in the door and Johnny entered the living room. He was warm and friendly, somewhat different from the last time the two exchanged words.

As Johnny reached his teenage years, the relationship between him and his father changed. It was as though the dad he always looked up to had suddenly become "uncool." Then his mother became concerned about the type of company he was keeping, and asked Jerry if he could somehow mention it to the boy. Much to his sorrow, the conversation escalated into a full‑blown argument, at the height of which Johnny contested,

"What about you and your friends during the war? Some of them weren't the 'best of company,' and while we are on the subject, I'm sick and tired of hearing you talk about 'back then."'

By now he was yelling at his father. As he walked toward the door he turned and spat out,

"The days of glory are gone dad! All you have from them are some faded medals. I'm getting out of here before I end up an old man with nothing but faded memories!"

With that, he walked out and slammed the door. Jerry knew he was right about the medals. There was a strange irony about the war. He contended that he hated it, but at the same time missed the glory of living for what he believed was a just cause. The medals given to him by the French government were faded, and the "days of glory" had, over the years, become a pale memory.

Two days later, Johnny called and told his Mom that he had an apartment in Dallas. Now, more than three months after the blow up he had shown up at home as though everything was just fine.

"Did you see the news tonight; the protest at Washington? Incredible huh?" Jerry put the vivid memories of the last time they exchanged words out of his mind, rubbed his forehead, then his eyes, yawned and thoughtfully said,

"Something big is stirring in the nation. That man King is a born leader. He reminds me of a man I knew in the, ah. . . " He stopped himself from finishing the sentence.

Johnny walked into the kitchen, helped himself to a bottle of coke, took the cap off and called back,

"Yeah. Dad, I need to ask you a favor."

Jerry smiled and as Johnny entered the room he said,

"How much do you want?" He shook his head and said,

"I don't want money. I've been concerned lately about the violence in Dallas. I think I need a gun."

Jerry was suddenly no longer tired. He tried not to betray his surprise and calmly said,

"What do you want a gun for?" The subject was material begging for another blowup. It seemed odd that his son entered the room talking about a peaceful protest in Washington, and in the next breath he said he wanted a gun.

As the young man sat in front of him sipping his coke, Jerry said,

"Are you in trouble?" Johnny looked directly at him and said,

"Dad, I don't want to clash with you on this. I need a gun for protection. I'm not in trouble, and I'm not going to do anything illegal, but I feel defenseless when I'm in Dallas at night. You know what it's been like recently with the increase in violence. You have the shotgun, how about letting me borrow Granddad’s .38? I promise I will take care of it."

He had grown up with guns and he knew how to handle them, so without another word, Jerry went to his room and came back with his father's .38 and a box of bullets, handed them to his son and said,

"I know you will look after this." He took it from his father, placed it on the table in front of him and said,

"Thanks…I knew you would understand."

To be continued.


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It's a gift!

As Jerry entered the lavish room, he felt overwhelmingly wretched. The last time they had looked at each other had been when Jerry cursed him to his face. Theodore sat at a large oak desk. His clear eyes seemed to look right into Jerry's heart, but it wasn't a look of condescension. It was one of warm welcome. All Jerry could think of was the way he had insulted and ridiculed this truly good man. Theodore had always done business with the utmost integrity, something Jerry had scorned. As he sat down in front of the desk he could hardly lift his head. He took a deep breath and said,

"I have come for your help . . . "

When he confessed what he had done and that he was greatly in debt, Theodore asked for the exact amount of liability he had incurred, including the loan from the Mafia. The total was in excess of twenty million dollars, but if Theodore could lend him even half of that, it would give him some respite. Without hesitation, Theodore called for Grace, gave her a key and quietly spoke into her ear.

A few moments later, she appeared holding a check. Jerry noticed that her hand was trembling as she gave it to him. He whispered,

"Thank you," then glanced at the amount. He couldn't believe what he saw. The check was for the entire amount of the debt. He didn't expect them to lend him anything, let alone the full amount. He had an idea what these people were worth and knew that this check represented their entire fortune. This display of kindness was utterly undeserved. He felt humbled, and at the same time unspeakably grateful. This payment represented his very life. The loan would mean that he wouldn't be publicly humiliated and thrown into prison. It would mean that the Mafia would leave him alone, and that he could stand up once again and look his friends in the eye. The loan meant that suicide was no longer an option.

He looked into the eyes of the man he once despised and thought of as his enemy and said,

"You had every right not to lend me this money and throw me off your property." Theodore smiled and said,

"Oh, Jeremiah. It's not a loan. It's a gift."

To be continued.

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Chapter Fifteen: Glimmer of Light

The visit from the Mob scared Jerry. Really scared him. It brought back fears reminiscent of Nazi Germany. For three days he soaked himself in alcohol from the time he got up until the time he went to bed. As he pondered his dilemma, he began to contemplate the unthinkable: suicide.

On the morning of the fourth day there was a knock of a different sort at his door. It was the law with a warrant for his arrest. His overseas creditors had begun the proceedings they warned him about.

This once rich, happy, proud and generous benefactor was about to be arrested and no doubt with much publicity, humiliated and dragged to prison like a common criminal.

As the dark figures of two law‑officers stood in his doorway, Jerry desperately searched his mind for someone in his past that may be able to help him. The banks had pulled tight their purse strings and he now owned nothing of material value with which he could negotiate. The situation was utterly hopeless. His heart sunk into even deeper despondency. What was happening didn't seem real.

Suddenly, he remembered a man named Theodore Lawson, who lived near the property where he first struck oil. This neighbor was exceptionally wealthy, but the two had become hostile enemies, mainly because he frowned on Jerry's infidelity. One night, years earlier, when the two families gathered for an evening meal at the Adamson’s, Jerry had greatly insulted Grace, Theodore's wife, by making an unwanted and drunken advance towards her. This had caused terrible ill feelings between them because she was a delicate and virtuous woman. When Theodore confronted him about his low moral ethics, Jerry told him in no uncertain terms that his life was none of his business, and had had him physically thrown off his property. The two had been at enmity ever since.

But Jerry knew that Theodore was a religious man, and there was a chance he would forgive him for what he had done. Perhaps he would lend him the money he needed to get the law off his back and rescue him out of his terrible nightmare. In the light of the way he had treated him, it would be very humbling to ask, but it was his last and only hope. He obtained permission from the officers to make one call. He slowly lifted the phone and dialed the number.

When Grace answered the phone, Jerry nervously said,

"May I please speak to your husband?" She immediately recognized his voice and warmly answered,

"Jerry. Why don't you come in person and see us? Theo has often spoken of you. He has closely followed everything you have been doing."

Jerry couldn't believe what he was hearing. It was amazing that Grace remembered him and that her husband had actually shown an interest in what he had been doing. He put the phone down, walked over to the law‑officers and pleaded that they allow him to visit his old neighbor. When he explained that there was a chance that he could raise some of the money to pay his creditors, they agreed that they would escort him, explaining that if he made one wrong move he would find himself in deep trouble.

He sat quietly in the back of the police car, grateful that the law had at least allowed him to follow this last glimmer of light down the very straight and narrow road to Theodore's house.

After he knocked on the large door, it opened to reveal Grace in all her innocent beauty. She looked deeply into Jerry's weary eyes, reached out compassionately and took him by his hand. It was as though she knew what he had come for. Then she gently took him into Theodore's study.
To be continued.

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Knock, knock...

One evening there was a knock at the door. Instead of opening it, Jerry sat in the living room chair with a drink in his hand and hoped they, whoever they were, would go away.

Suddenly, there was loud crash as the door was smashed in. Three well‑dressed men stood directly in front of a quickly sobered‑up and wide‑eyed Jerry. The spokesman said calmly,

"You should have opened the door Jerry. My boss won't be too pleased to hear that we had to break down it down just to speak to you." He then smiled and said,

"We had hoped this would be a pleasant visit."

"Who are you and what do you want?" snapped Jerry. The man smiled again, calmly inhaled his cigarette and said,

"My name isn't important. My boss is Mr. Luciano, a name with which you are evidently not familiar. You should be; you owe him a great deal of money. We hear through the grapevine that you are in a hole."

The man forced an insincere smile through his yellowing teeth, reached up and picked a photo off the shelf, took his burning cigarette and stubbed it into the face of Elizabeth, Jeremiah’s beloved daughter. His smile disappeared as he said,

"My boss doesn't like to hear that people who owe him money can't pay up. It would be sad if something happened to your kid. You have one week to settle things with Mr. Luciano. I understand your accountant knows how to contact him."

At that, the three men left, leaving Jerry stunned. He quickly picked up the phone, called Vance and said,

"Who the blazes is this guy Luciano!?" Vance was quiet for a moment, then he said,

"I didn't know until this afternoon. I'm sorry Jerry. When I got you that corporation loan, I thought they were legit. He’s a cousin of 'Lucky' Luciano, who, back in 1936 was sent to prison for twenty-five years for running a $12 million‑a‑year prostitution ring in New York City. I had no idea that this guy in Florida was a big wig in the Mafia."
To be continued...

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Dead end.

Jerry appeared to be a warm and generous man, but beneath the exterior of benevolence, money had surfaced another side to him that was seen by only those who were closest to him. His war experiences and his business dealings made him into a cold and ruthless businessman. In time, he degenerated to a point where he only gave gifts because it created friends that would do whatever he wanted. Money gave him power over people, and power gave him pleasure.

Little did anyone but his accountant know that he had another dirty little secret. Years previously, he had invested almost all of his wealth into a very high‑yielding overseas fund and more recently, that had crashed overnight, sending him wildly into debt. But late one night, he and Vance met with some overseas bankers and secured a massive loan against casino properties he owned in Las Vegas. The casinos were not paying their way, and day by day Jerry was sinking into a giant whirlpool of liability. Once a month, he would secretly meet with his creditors and plead for an extension of his loans, each time assuring them that things would come right with the casinos.

At one of these meetings, his creditors advised him that they wanted to balance their books, and that he had until the end of the month to meet interest payments. If he was unable to do so they would take radical steps to "secure their investment."

After that meeting, Jerry took steps to acquire more credit through large city banks, but each time he was turned down, something he wasn't used to. This added more fuel to his simmering anger. His call to his accountant was pointed with expletives:

"Vance, I don't care what you have to do, but get me some credit somewhere!" With his veins bulging in his neck, he screamed,

"I don't care how much interest you have to pay, or where you have to go to get it, but get it. Now!" Click!

In a last ditch effort, he secured a huge loan from a foreign bank and embarked on a two million dollar television advertising blitz to promote his casinos. He also made public the fact that he had low‑risk, high‑yielding bonds, and vast quantities of revenue poured in from trusting investors. But instead of investing the money into bonds, he secretly used it for advertisements. He hoped to pay it back when the campaign roused the casinos from their slumber. But the advertising campaign was a disaster. Much to his horror the economy suddenly went sour and people held onto their dollars with a tight fist, sucking him even further and further into his mammoth whirlpool.

To try and keep his head above water, he mortgaged everything he still owned outside of his business. This included his home, his massive yacht and one of his two luxury cars, to yield liquid cash to stay with the extravagant lifestyle he so loved. He wouldn't face reality. Jeremiah P. Adamson was living in a dream-world, thinking that somehow he would never have to balance the books.

The sale of his assets, along with a large short‑term and high interest loan Vance secured through a private corporation in Florida, eased the pressure from his creditors. However, in time the stress began to take its toll on Jerry. This once happy man became deeply depressed and began drinking copious amounts of alcohol just to make it through each day. His dream-world turned into a nightmare. The parties, the admirers, the compliments didn't do for him what they once did.

It was evident to his close friends that something was drastically wrong. His creditor's phone calls became frequent and heated. His fast lane had become a dead end.
To be continued...

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Short-lived pain.

By the time Jerry had read the article, beads of sweat had formed on his brow and his jaw was clinched tight. He looked at the knuckles of both of his hands. They were clenched so tight, they were drained of blood. In his mind he tried to imagine Eichmann's eyes bulging with terror as he hung by the rope. It sickened him that the mass murder's pain was so short‑lived. He wanted desperately to believe that there was a God and a burning Hell that awaited him and every other Nazi that ever breathed this earth's air into his evil lungs.

He remembered the limited feeling of satisfaction after he so closely followed the Nuremberg trials back in 1946, which resulted in nine of Hitler's henchmen swinging from the end of a rope. It was almost an anti‑climax when they were hung. It didn't stop the pain of losing his father and sister or the countless friends who died fighting the cancer of the Nazis. Today's newspaper item only stirred the demons of hatred, bitterness and anger within him. All he wanted to do was forget the past, but the past would not forget him. Every memory brought with it other recollections that carried unbearable pain.

Vance was right. Oil had made Jerry very rich. Money dripped from the affluent fingers of the Adamson family. Everything Jerry touched turned to gold. What's more, everyone liked him. Why wouldn't they? He became a giver of fine gifts‑‑big gifts‑‑cars, boats and money, lots of money. The Royse City authorities also liked him because he was very philanthropic. Generosity was his middle name. Oil made him millions, but he had shrewdly transferred his wealth into stocks and shares, which had greatly increased his fortune. He was a risk‑taker in war and a risk‑taker in peace, and his risk‑taking had paid huge dividends.

Jeremiah P. Adamson was no longer the simple‑living farmer he had been in England. Money does strange things to people, and over the years affluence changed him into a man of the world. He had become a man who optimized Shakespeare's warning to "flee ambition, for by such sin fell the angels."

Amidst the sea of wealth Connie and Jerry had drifted apart and virtually lived two separate lives in their own home. Jerry's life was consumed with running his business and taking care of his money, and Connie's life was devoted to Elizabeth and Johnny.

Although his name was a household word in the district, the public wasn't aware that many of his business dealings had created adversaries. The business world is a hard and steep climb, and often one has to tread on a few fingers to get there. After death‑threats started, bodyguards followed Jerry almost everywhere he went. There were also more than a few large and shady financial dealings with people that the police had been investigating, but the investigations never came too close to Jeremiah P. Adamson, thanks to friends in high places.
To be continued...

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Chapter Fourteen: Who is Luciano?

The year was 1962. As he sat in the living room of his plush Texas home, Jerry flicked through the Royse City newspaper, sent to him by an old friend and casually glanced over the music section. A new group, with what was being called a "Mersey beat" was finding big success back in Liverpool, England. Jerry wasn't at all interested in modern music, but anything in U.S. newspapers about Great Britain always caught his interest. He smiled at the thought of Liverpool. Many times he and Connie had driven there and sat in the cold wooden stands, with cups of warm coffee and an even warmer crowd, and cheered on their favorite soccer team. He put the paper on his lap and licked his lips at the thought of English fish and chips, with salt and vinegar. He grinned that just the thought of them made his mouth water.

Then he continued reading the item. According to the article, the new group was named, "The Beatles." Decca, a major British recording studio, had rejected them, saying,

"We don't like their sound. Groups of guitars are on the way out." Jerry glanced across to the other page and mumbled,

"Well, they should know what . . . "

On the opposite page he saw another item that immediately caught his attention and stopped him in mid-sentence. His hands began to shake as he read the piece. It was headed, "Israel Hangs Eichmann for Death Camp Acts," and read:

"Inside a fog‑enshrouded Israeli prison, a noose was place around the neck of Adolf Eichmann just before midnight tonight. His last appeal for mercy had been rejected. Eichmann's ankles and knees were tied. He said a few last words and then a black trap door sprang open in the floor. Eichmann, the man who sent millions of Jews to their deaths in Nazi Concentration Camps, was dead.

"'Long live Germany. Long live Argentina,' Eichmann said before he was executed.

"’But to sum it all up,’ wrote Eichmann in his memoirs, ‘I must say that I regret nothing...Hitler was somehow so supremely capable that the people recognized him. And so with that...I recognize him joyfully and I still defend him. I will not humble myself or repent in any way...No, I must say truthfully that if we had killed all the 10 million Jews that statisticians originally listed in 1933, I would say, 'Good, we have destroyed an enemy.' "Argentina was the country where he hid until he was kidnapped by Israeli security agents. 'I had to obey the rules of war and my flag. I am ready,' were the mass murderer's final words. In denying Eichmann's appeal for mercy, the Israeli Supreme Court said he had shown no repentance for his crimes. It was reported that he had committed them with 'genuine joy and enthusiasm.' The Justices also called the death sentence 'inadequate compared to the millions of deaths in the most diverse ways he had inflicted on his victims."'
To be continued...

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Chapter Thirteen: Not in the United States

The Adamsons moved to their neighbor's home at their invitation, and took their dogs with them. The night of the fire, Faithful had chewed through his rope when he saw the flames coming from the house. Then he stood right outside the bedroom window and barked his sweet little canine heart out. The house was in ruins but the family was intact, and that was all that mattered to them.

The local police investigated the fire and found that it had been deliberately set. That was no surprise to Jerry. When their hired help had suddenly disappeared the night of the fire, it didn't take Sherlock Homes to put two and two together. Despite their investigation, Jerry didn't have too much confidence in the Otley Police Department. It wasn't exactly Scotland Yard. There were only three full-time officers, and the typical crime in the area was a stolen bicycle. Even that didn't happen too often. That's why it amazed him to hear Chief Inspector Simmons explain to him that Mr. "Bill Lovock" wasn't who he said he was. His real name was Wilhelm Schmidt, a German citizen who came with his parents to Britain in 1936. The parents returned to Germany in 1939 at the outbreak of the war and the father had joined the SS. They left their teenage son in Britain as an informant, thinking that because he was young and had no German accent, he wouldn't be a suspect and could be useful to the cause of the party.

The Inspector said,

"The man is a Nazi through and through. He is very bitter that Hitler's dream to rule the world, failed. Schmidt hated Jews, blacks and anyone who stood against the Party. We have been trying to track him for years, but he kept slipping through our fingers. Then he suddenly showed up in areas of the country and set fire to different things. He must have seen the article about you in the paper. In the past it has been church and government buildings. We will get him soon." He then turned to Jerry and said,

"By the way Mr. Adamson, in the course of the investigation we took a number of items away the morning after the fire. One of them was a .38 pistol. I know that you haven't the weapon for unlawful purposes, but this is not the United States. One of my men told me that you have been considering moving back there, so we will keep it down at the station until that time. Normally, we wouldn't normally return a weapon like that to its owner; but we are grateful for the work you have done for Britain, so you can pick it up when and if you decide to leave the country."

It was while the Adamson family was still staying with the neighbors, that Jerry received another call from the United States. Vance's rich Texas accent brought back memories of the last time he heard from him, and he braced himself for some more bad news. The accountant said,

"Thank you Jerry for returning the form I sent you earlier in the year." Jerry didn't know what he was talking about. He excused himself, covered over the mouthpiece with his hand and asked Connie,

"Did I sign a form earlier in the year; something to do with a release for an oil company to survey on Mom's farm?" Connie nodded and said ,

"You signed it along with about a thousand bills you paid in March. You don't remember because I addressed, stamped and posted it." He lifted the phone back to his mouth and said,

"Sorry about that Vance; carry on." The accountant then said that the company's prospecting was just routine, but that he now had some good news for the Adamson family:

"The whole area of surrounding farmland is oil‑rich. They struck oil on your land this morning at 9:35! Jerry‑boy, you had better mosey on home. You and your wife are rich. Very rich!"

To be continued...

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Quite a statement . . . for an atheist.

The sound of the barking had aroused a neighbor who called the local voluntary fire department. As Jerry pulled his beloved wife and children out into the fresh air in front of the house, he could feel the heat of naked flames as they licked through the kitchen window behind him like a huge monster still reaching to devour its prey. He rolled his wife onto her stomach, put her limp arms under her head and began to press firmly on her back. Suddenly, she began to cough. Jerry whispered,

"Thank God!" He turned his attention to his two terrified children beside him. Johnny was conscious. His face was white and he and was shaking with fear. But by the light from the flames he could see that Elizabeth had stopped breathing and had turned a ghostly blue. In a panic he grabbed her tiny and limp body, turned her over and with both hands pressed on her limp body again and again. Tears streamed down his face as he prayed,

"Please God. Please. Let her live! Oh God don't let this child die . . . I’ll do anything You want. Please!"

He kept pressing for what seemed like an eternity, but it was no use. Elizabeth wasn't responding. He picked her up and with trembling hands held her close to his chest and began to weep uncontrollably.

Suddenly, he felt strange. It was as though someone had touched him on his shoulder. He looked around, then down at Connie. She was still lying unconscious, but breathing normally. He looked behind him again. It was bizarre. No one was there. His baby lay lifeless in his arms, yet the fear had left and there was that same unmistakable peace that he once felt the time he entered the von Ludendorff home in Poland so long ago.

Then Jerry heard themost wonderful sound. A tiny gagging noise came from his child. Tears poured from his eyes, this time for a different reason. He squeezed his little girl tightly in his arms, looked to the heavens and whispered,

"Thank you God. Thank you God." Quite a statement . . . for an atheist.

To be continued...

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