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Death Be Not Pricey

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Last year, he saved strangers about $200,000. He managed to bill $16,000. He collected only $12,000. But a customer wrote that Mother "has probably already talked to God about adding a little more square footage to your heavenly space," and Lambert considered it a pretty good year.

Smoke began billowing out of the air-conditioning vents of the old Taurus. Not to worry, said Lambert, turning the AC off. "Just a little maintenance problem."

He traveled onward to other funeral homes. At Earthman Hunter's Creek, the counselor also compared her work to the ministry. "I help people," Rebecca said. Lambert told her about Janie, who by now was down to 75 pounds. Rebecca sympathized and went for the sale. She broke the law when she said the seal on a metal casket protects the body, which it doesn't. She gave a price of $6,000 for a cremation with viewing, but Lambert couldn't coax her into volunteering the cheapest option, direct cremation.

At Crespo on Broadway, it was much the same. The sales lady said the cheapest coffin could only be used for cremation, which wasn't true. Lambert chalked it up to her inexperience. He was nice that way.

He fed his collected data onto another spreadsheet. ("I could paper my walls with spreadsheets," he said.) The three funeral homes represented the three largest funeral chains in the country. For a graveside service with a minimum casket, the Loewen Group's Earthman would charge roughly $11,620, or about $30 more than SCI's Waltrip. Crespo, owned by the Stuart Corporation, was the cheapest of the chains, at about $8,470.

And then there is Claire Brothers Funeral Home, owned and operated by Mr. Jim Claire -- $3,770 for the same work, done to the same corpse, placed in a more attractive box, buried in the same graveyard.

Why pay more? Lambert refers people to Claire for coffins and body work. Claire buys his coffins from the same manufacturers and manages to make a profit selling them for about half of what other mortuaries do. His labor is cheaper, too.

He looks and sounds something like the Godfather. Claire is an earthy man, which is all anyone could hope for in an undertaker. Inside his small parlor on Hillcroft, between a used-car lot and an auto-body repair shop, Claire had to work while he spoke. With a reporter standing by, he and his assistant hoisted a large corpse off the gurney and dropped it with a thud into the coffin. As the assistant rapidly brushed the dead man's hair, the skin jiggling with each stroke, Claire gazed with admiration. "He looks good, doesn't he?" said the undertaker. "See, we do good work."

The phone was ringing. He took it into the bathroom with two lines on hold: The family of a man about to be executed wanted to make arrangements "so everything runs smoothly." Someone else wanted to know if anyone had seen Mrs. Jones, or the ashes of.

Claire does about 500 funerals a year, or about four times what he expected when he opened in 1996. He had found a niche, he said. Most funeral homes are priced for the rich, and most people are not rich.

"See what I'm saying? You don't need to spend thousands and thousands of dollars on this hole to satisfy your grief."

One of these days, Lambert is sure, the forces within the SCI tower will be dispatched to destroy him. There will be a "showdown," and Lambert will do his Christian duty. And sometime after that -- could be days, could be years -- "My Lord will say, 'Hey, Ken, it's time.' "

An obituary recounting the many good deeds of Ken Lambert will run to $300. Beyond that, Lambert will save a bundle. Jim Claire will cremate him for $595. The "cremains" of a veteran will get a free niche in the VA cemetery. The flag will replace flowers, which will save $150. The American Legion will fire a 21-gun salute, and his wife will finally appreciate Funeral Shoppers.

About the time that everyone is sitting down at Luby's, Lambert will be getting the first taste of his reward. Having battled so hard against the funeral dragon, having promised to let his business die if it isn't profitable by January, Sir Ken suffers a recurring nightmare about heaven:

There will be 200 years of work waiting for him, and no peace, no eternal rest.

That's the dream, just a dream. In Ken Lambert's reality, he'll be surrounded by all the people whose money he saved. They'll all tell him he really made a difference. "And I'll say, 'Hey, great -- good to see you!' "

E-mail Randall Patterson at randall_patterson@houstonpress.com.

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