Forest Lawn are, among thousands of others: Jean Harlow in a chamber purchased by William Powell, Tom Mix and John Gilbert. Irving Grant Thalberg is inside a private mausoleum, and Lon Chaney is buried in an unmarked grave because too many fans visited and trampled the ground.
Begun in 1919 by Dr. Hubert Eaton, more than 87,000 people had been laid to rest inside its iron fence.
Dr. Eaton, known as “The Builder,” still around and perpetually upbeat—partly because he was reported to be clearing two million dollars a year—was fond of saying, “I believe in a happy eternal life.”
Forest Lawn’s income came not just from interments but also from christenings, fifteen-dollar marriages, casket sales, and the peddling of life insurance.
Flowers and fountains were all over the place, and soothing recorded music came from speakers throughout the park.
The service for Mildred Minck was held in a massive chapel with a giant stained-glass window depicting The Last Supper. Sitting on a small table covered in blue velvet in front of the chapel was an orange fake-oriental urn.
Handcuffed to a detective, Shelly sat there, blinking at the nonsectarian service being read by a tall, lean woman minister in a white robe. The woman came with the service, like pickles come with a hamburger.
“Her smile lit up a room. Her laughter brought a smile to those in need of a smile,” the minister said in a soothing, singsong voice.
I didn’t remember Mildred ever smiling or laughing. To Mildred the world had seemed to be a very sour lemon on which she had been mistakenly placed to pucker and complain.
There were only eight other people in the large chapel and more than one hundred empty chairs. I sat at the back where I could see everyone.
“Faith, hope and charity were always in her heart,” the minister went on.
I’ll give Mildred “hope.” She was always trying, but she had faith in nothing but the dollar, and charity to Mildred was definitely a foreign word used only by backward people.
To my left sat the Survivor quartet. Lawrence Timerjack, his right eye aimed in the general direction of the droning minister and his left fixed on me. He wore a black shirt with an orange tie and black pants over combat boots. Pathfinder Lewis, he of the pink cheeks and blowgun, sat on Timerjack’s left. He, too, wore a black shirt and slacks but no tie. He slouched, arms folded, as he looked at the back of Shelly’s head. To Timerjack’s right, sat Deerslayers Helter and Anthony. Same black shirt and slacks, the dress uniform of the Survivors. With them were two more members of the group wearing black. One of the two was a young bull of a man with a military shaved head and a protruding lower lip. Next to him sat another man, about forty, with a head of full dark hair and a well-trimmed bushy mustache.
Professor Geiger, in no uniform but a droopy herringbone jacket, sat five rows in front of the Survivors.
Mildred had a brother. No one knew where he was. No one had known for as long as she had been married to Shelly.
There were none of Mildred’s several lovers. No friends. Not even her hairdresser, who had taken an ample chunk of Shelly’s money over the years. I take that back. There was a solitary man sitting alone near the exit door. He wore a sport jacket and tie and kept glancing at his watch. He looked a little like Warner Baxter.
“… to contemplate what good she may have done had her life not been ended at so young an age,” the minister said.
Contemplating what hell she could have brought to Shelly and all who chanced to meet her would have been a more realistic enterprise.
I had called Marty Leib between funerals. He didn’t have to bother to tell me that using his services on a Sunday morning meant double the per-hour fee. Shelly would be paying for it and, according to Leib, Shelly would soon be able to afford it.
“Good news, bad news, neutral news,” Marty had said. “Which one first?”
Marty had
Begun in 1919 by Dr. Hubert Eaton, more than 87,000 people had been laid to rest inside its iron fence.
Dr. Eaton, known as “The Builder,” still around and perpetually upbeat—partly because he was reported to be clearing two million dollars a year—was fond of saying, “I believe in a happy eternal life.”
Forest Lawn’s income came not just from interments but also from christenings, fifteen-dollar marriages, casket sales, and the peddling of life insurance.
Flowers and fountains were all over the place, and soothing recorded music came from speakers throughout the park.
The service for Mildred Minck was held in a massive chapel with a giant stained-glass window depicting The Last Supper. Sitting on a small table covered in blue velvet in front of the chapel was an orange fake-oriental urn.
Handcuffed to a detective, Shelly sat there, blinking at the nonsectarian service being read by a tall, lean woman minister in a white robe. The woman came with the service, like pickles come with a hamburger.
“Her smile lit up a room. Her laughter brought a smile to those in need of a smile,” the minister said in a soothing, singsong voice.
I didn’t remember Mildred ever smiling or laughing. To Mildred the world had seemed to be a very sour lemon on which she had been mistakenly placed to pucker and complain.
There were only eight other people in the large chapel and more than one hundred empty chairs. I sat at the back where I could see everyone.
“Faith, hope and charity were always in her heart,” the minister went on.
I’ll give Mildred “hope.” She was always trying, but she had faith in nothing but the dollar, and charity to Mildred was definitely a foreign word used only by backward people.
To my left sat the Survivor quartet. Lawrence Timerjack, his right eye aimed in the general direction of the droning minister and his left fixed on me. He wore a black shirt with an orange tie and black pants over combat boots. Pathfinder Lewis, he of the pink cheeks and blowgun, sat on Timerjack’s left. He, too, wore a black shirt and slacks but no tie. He slouched, arms folded, as he looked at the back of Shelly’s head. To Timerjack’s right, sat Deerslayers Helter and Anthony. Same black shirt and slacks, the dress uniform of the Survivors. With them were two more members of the group wearing black. One of the two was a young bull of a man with a military shaved head and a protruding lower lip. Next to him sat another man, about forty, with a head of full dark hair and a well-trimmed bushy mustache.
Professor Geiger, in no uniform but a droopy herringbone jacket, sat five rows in front of the Survivors.
Mildred had a brother. No one knew where he was. No one had known for as long as she had been married to Shelly.
There were none of Mildred’s several lovers. No friends. Not even her hairdresser, who had taken an ample chunk of Shelly’s money over the years. I take that back. There was a solitary man sitting alone near the exit door. He wore a sport jacket and tie and kept glancing at his watch. He looked a little like Warner Baxter.
“… to contemplate what good she may have done had her life not been ended at so young an age,” the minister said.
Contemplating what hell she could have brought to Shelly and all who chanced to meet her would have been a more realistic enterprise.
I had called Marty Leib between funerals. He didn’t have to bother to tell me that using his services on a Sunday morning meant double the per-hour fee. Shelly would be paying for it and, according to Leib, Shelly would soon be able to afford it.
“Good news, bad news, neutral news,” Marty had said. “Which one first?”
Marty had
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