"The
king is dead"
(the
never before told true story of the funeral of Elvis Presley)
Robert
Holton
(2nd
edition to be released by Katco Media on 15 November 2004)
click
to order: The King Is Dead
Thanks
to Katco Media, EIN has two exclusive excerpts (and
visuals) from the eagerly anticipated 2nd edition of
Robert Holton's book, The King Is Dead.
The
book is a very unusual entry in the world of Elvis literature
as it is an in-depth account of Elvis' funeral arrangements
as:
"Funeral
Director Robert Kendall takes you behind the doors of
a legally-closed enbalming room to reveal the funeral
of rock & roll's greatest legend".
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CHAPTER
TWO: "THE CALL FROM JOE [ESPOSITO]"
EXCERPTED
WITH EXPRESS-WRITTEN PERMISSION FROM KATCO MEDIA; COPYRIGHT
1998,2004 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
We turned off Union Avenue and into the funeral home parking
area where we headed straight for the preparation building
and warehouse on the far side of the property. About two hundred
and fifty men and women, including television crews with cameras
and klieg lights, microphones and other paraphernalia, and
still photographers with strobe lights, were crowded against
a chain-link fence surrounding the property. In sharp contrast
to the respectfully muted atmosphere among the fans at the
hospital entrance and those strung out along Union Avenue,
the media people were loud and boisterous.
“Hey!”
shouted one of their number as we stopped the coach and waited
for the door to be opened from inside. “How about a shot of
you unloadin’ the body?” “Com’mon guys!” another cried. “Have
a heart, will ya? We only askin’ for a shot of you wheeling
it into the building. Come on, how about it?”
After
waiting several seconds for someone from inside to open the
door, Webb pressed the automatic electronic, door-opening
device attached to the dashboard and the wide slatted aluminum
door of the building began its slow ascent. As soon as it
had been lifted just high enough for clearance, Webb pulled
the coach into the building and the door began to close behind
us. I couldn’t help but rejoice at having disappointed the
two loudmouthed cameramen who did most of the yelling from
behind the fence. My rancor quickly subsided after I reminded
myself that they were merely doing the job they are paid to
do and that, personally, most of the guys and gals in the
profession are pretty damned good eggs. Still, I had to admit
that at times they could bug the shit out of a Mother Theresa.
There
they were, disregarding all the rules of civilized decency
in dealing with the newly dead by making all manner of unreasonable
demands, while the people to whom Elvis really belonged, his
fans, asked nothing more than the opportunity to quietly pay
their respects to the memory of a man they loved and respected.
It wasn’t until we unloaded the stretcher from the funeral
coach inside the windowless, cinder block structure and started
to wheel it in the direction of the embalming suite that a
chilling thought struck me.
I
had signed for the mortal remains of one of the world’s most
famous entertainment figures without having looked to make
certain that what lay under those sheets were even human remains,
much less those of Elvis Presley.
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Elvis
and Kang Rhee (this photo appears in b&w in The
King Is Dead |
CHAPTER
THREE: "MISTER PRESLEY'S ORDERS"
EXCERPTED
WITH EXPRESS-WRITTEN PERMISSION FROM KATCO MEDIA; COPYRIGHT
1998,2004 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
A
city policeman standing at the gate spotted my car as I headed
toward the gate. He blew his whistle and waved for me to straighten
out and move on. I lowered the automatic car window and politely
signaled for the officer to approach so that I might explain
the reason for my presence. But he shook his head in rejection
of my request for a hearing and again waved me on.
“Hey,
Bob Kendall,” shouted a voice from somewhere in the shadows
behind the closed mansion gates. “It’s me, Dick Grob.”
I
stopped the car and waited until the one gate swung partially
open and Dick came out with another policeman and said something
to the police officer who had been waving me away. This time,
when the officer blew his whistle, he accompanied it with
a hand signal for me to approach the gate while at the same
time motioning for the crowd to let my car through.
When
the iron gates swung open, I pulled through onto the bottom
of the blacktop road that snaked up the grass knoll to the
entrance of the white stone and wooden mansion. Dick, and
another Graceland employee came to the car and greeted me
with a handshake before they both climbed onto the back seat.
I
drove to the residence at the crown of the knoll and parked
off to the side of the main door.
As
the three of us left the car and approached the main entrance
to the mansion, a uniformed city policeman guarding the threshold
drew open the wide door and invited us to cross into the foyer
of the residence named by a former physician owner as “Graceland.”
***
The
old man [Ed, Note, Vernon Presley] reached into one of his
trouser pockets and extracted a piece of lined notebook paper
on which he had written in his own hand the names headed by
George Klein, Joe Esposito, Charlie Hodge, Billy Smith, Lamar
Fike, and Dr. George Nicopolis. “Here’s the list,” he said,
as he passed the paper to Joe, who passed it to me without
even looking at it.
Vernon
turned the conversation to the clothing in which Elvis would
be buried by pointing to a white linen, two-button suit with
fashionably narrow lapels folded neatly on the bed in front
of him. I
could see from the expressions on Joe and George Klein’s faces
that they were as surprised as I was at the suit. I guess
we all somehow expected, perhaps I even hoped that Elvis would
make his final appearance on this earth in one of the many
jump-suits that had become a hallmark of his fabulous career.
“I
bought that suit for Elvis at Neubies not long ago when we
were in California,” Mister Presley explained, his eyes moistened
with tears after having mentioned his son by name for the
first time in the meeting. “It didn’t get here until about
two weeks ago. You know, he never even got to wear it.” With
those words another of my fading hopes for a glitzy showbiz
funeral for Elvis was dashed.
To
relieve the emotional tension of the moment, Al Stroter, Elvis
wardrobe manager, chimed in to suggest that I go to the Julius
Lewis men’s furnishings store on Union Avenue the next day
to purchase a powder blue shirt and white tie that would color-coordinate
with the suit. He needlessly suggested that I spare no expense
in the purchases and gave me Elvis’ shirt measurements as
a sixteen-and-a-half inch neck and thirty-five inch sleeves.
I wrote the measurements in my notebook. Having by then regained
his complete composure, Vernon came back into the conversation
to announce that C. W. Bradley, minister of the Wooddale Church
of Christ, would conduct the funeral service and preside at
the interment rites.
“Will
the burial be next to Mrs. Presley in the Forest Hills Cemetery?”
I asked.
“No,”
Vernon snapped. “There’s been so much damage done to Gladys’
tombstone already that I don’t want her buried there any more.
I want Elvis to be buried in the mausoleum, and later we’ll
move my wife next to him, but we could never bury them in
the plot. People would tear it apart for souvenirs.”
click
to order: The King Is Dead
EIN
expresses its sincere thanks to Katco Media for granting us
permission to publish the above excerpts from The King Is
Dead
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