One Day She'll Darken Read online

  ONE DAY

  SHE’LL

  DARKEN

  The Mysterious Beginnings of Fauna Hodel

  FAUNA HODEL

  with J.R. BRIAMONTE

  THE INSPIRATION FOR THE TNT SERIES I AM THE NIGHT

  In loving memory Linda Howard and Mary Sherrill Chidiac

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Acknowledgments

  Author’s Note

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Epilogue

  Fulfilling Our Destiny

  About the Author

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I’d like to thank the countless individuals who assisted and supported me during the writing of this book. Their contributions made this book possible.

  To the many professionals all over the world who took the time to read the manuscript in its developing stages whose feedback and encouragement kept me going.

  To my family, Yvette and Gino Gentile and Rasha and Vanna Pecoraro and my “through thick and thin” film partner Liliane S. Tsuha, and Jan Hewitt, Joyce Kimble, Rev. Don Butler, Rev. Michael Beckwith, and my Reno family.

  To my wonderful Elvis Kawahara who proves . . . that ELVIS LIVES . . . his mother, Peace Tan Kawahara and his brother, Wendell Kawahara. Without Elvis I could not have kept going. . . .

  I would like to also thank Papa and Mama Tokuda, Jacqueline Higa, Dayna Mari, Jennifer Crites, Judy Hevenly, Bill Paredes, Rev. Helen Street, Corinne Galardo, and Gerry Stober.

  Please know all the ANGELS . . . here and beyond . . . I THANK YOU for the love and encouragement . . . and . . .

  I would also like to thank my precious Luanne Rucker who gave me the important link I had been searching for, not knowing it would lead to my own Pandora’s box.

  I wish to thank James Walton.

  I wish to thank my editors, Claudio Martinez, Lisa McBride Azuma, and Heidi Mulligan who helped improve the book.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  The following events are true, chronicled from the people who lived them. Both of my mothers were great storytellers, often adding plenty of colorful detail. Other accounts were verified from documented materials taken from the original sources that included diaries, letters, newspaper accounts, and official records. Some of the taped interviews were reproduced in their entirety in order to offer the reader the same sense of awe that created this extraordinary story.

  The sequence of events confirms the earlier events in the book about George Hodel titled The Black Dahlia Avenger, by Steve Hodel, George’s son, and my uncle. In his younger years, before he became a doctor who was involved with the Hollywood elite, before he became a prime suspect in the murder investigation of Elizabeth Short, and long before his acquittal in a sensational incest trial in 1948 after which he left the country, my grandfather made a living as a chauffeur. Perhaps that was a way for him to pry into the private lives of people he encountered. The decisions he made and the events in his life directly affected my entire world, even though we were separated by two generations.

  —Fauna Hodel

  — Rick Briamonte

  ONE DAY

  SHE’LL

  DARKEN

  CHAPTER 1

  A female figure in a creamy white uniform hurriedly glided past the cashier’s cage. But it wasn’t the tempo that made this beauty conspicuous, it was her rich black skin. The woman didn’t belong on the casino floor mingling among the guests—that was understood. She worked in the ladies’ room as an attendant, but from her attitude and tight fitting uniform none of the onlookers seemed to mind. As she glided by, each in turn would cast a lustful gaze that only fueled her conceit. Her collar was neatly starched and finished with pale green piping at the edges, and small epaulets on the shoulders that widened her frame at the top. On other employees the same uniform hung like an old chamois waiting to dry, but on Jimmie it underscored her curves from the shoulders to the double-stitched hem just below the knee. Her shoes matched the color of the dress and highlighted her dark brown calves that shimmered through the nylons. On top of her thick, wavy black hair she wore a small white tricorne with green trim. Her rich red lipstick, flawlessly painted on as if by the hands of an artist, contrasted sharply against her ebony skin. At thirty-two years old Jimmie Lee Stokes’ shapely contours still quivered when she walked. Everyone within sight noticed, and that’s the way she wanted it. It made her feel confident.

  Jimmie peered to the right, beyond the bar with hawk-like focus, checking to see if Chris made it to work yet. Her pace slowed to a deliberate saunter, passing the slot machines, stopping momentarily to take notice of an old woman collecting a jackpot of nickels. It was 1951 and the Riverside Hotel & Casino in Reno was off limits to non-gaming employees and coloreds. Jimmie was indeed both, but she was too livid this morning to be concerned about rules.

  The shoeshine stand had been spruced up as part of the hotel renovation. Three new leather chairs were bolted to the top with footrests of polished brass. As Jimmie Lee approached, she recognized the old man with short, curly gray hair. She watched him pack his satchel preparing to leave at the end of his graveyard shift. She stood squarely, arms crossed as he turned to remove his cotton apron. “Oh, Jimmie Lee,” he said, “don’t be sneakin’ up on people like that. What’s you tryin’ to do, stop my heart?”

  “Where’s Chris?” She asked as her eyes searched about the casino.

  “He didn’t get here yet. Called earlier, about seven, said he’d be late. He asked me to stay until he comes in, but I can’t wait no more. I got to get my grandchild to school . . . he knows that.”

  “Were yo’all busy last night?” she asked.

  “We was early, till about 2:30, than it just got quiet. Only started pickin’ up in maybe the last half hour or so.”

  Jimmie cautiously moved to the side of the raised shoeshine stand, out of the way, on guard for a floor boss. Within seconds, her eyes locked on to the strapping figure with the thin mustache coming from the restroom. His hands were behind his back tying his work apron, his head bowed down, emphasizing his receding hairline. His gait was quick, purposeful. Jimmie felt his presence as she turned to her left and came face to face with Chris. “Blessie,” he said. She noted his surprised and somewhat annoyed stare. “What’s you doing over here?” He glanced toward the old man and gave a thank you nod.

  Jimmie’s hands snapped to her hips. She cocked her head and glared, but spoke softly. “What am I doin’ over here? What did ya think?! I come to see if ya’ll was dead or not. Since ya didn’t come home last night and you told me ya were gonna do some work at the church, I figured that God must of decided that He couldn’t do without ya and took ya away from your poor little Blessie.”

  Chris chuckled, “No I ain’t dead . . . see.” She watched his eyes open wide and his brow lift. “But I am tired. I’ve been up all night with Miss Eisley, she. . . .”

  “I knew it!” Jimmie erupted as she saw Chris’ square face flush with blood. Quickly, she was nose to nose. “That damn little bitch’s been trying to grab your ass ever since she moved here. And now you admit it! I knew I’d catch ya screwing around on me one of these days! You been doing it for a long time
. Well I’m not putting up with no more a ya damn bull!” Jimmie didn’t hold back her loud scolding as the veins in her neck began to protrude.

  “Now Blessie, please wait a minute,” said Chris, “let me explain. . . .” She felt his embarrassment, and knew she got through to him.

  “I heard ya damn explanations, and ya damn sweet talkin’, and your holier-than-thou preachin’, and I ain’t putting up with you makin’ me look like no damn fool!”

  The audience of two gave her power, but she didn’t care who heard her rant. Her fiery eyes darted toward the stunned old man who backed away melting into the furniture.

  She noticed the tiny beads of sweat glistening on Chris’s furrowed brow. His eyes flicked back and forth between Jimmie and the nameless faces gathering about. She felt his nervous strength as he grabbed her arms to calm her down. His soothing voice usually worked. As he pulled her close to his chest she smelled her own breath laced with the odor of liquor.

  “Now please! Blessie, listen to me, It’s not what you think. I wasn’t out with no . . .”

  She cut him off while trying to escape his powerful grip. “Ah! Don’t you touch me, you slimy dog! I don’t want ya damn hands near me after you been with a filthy whore!”

  “Blessie!” He said.

  She was aware customers were now watching, but she let him squirm as his face oozed embarrassment.

  “Blessie, please, ease up. Security is on his way over and we’re gonna get written up or thrown out of here—then what are we going to do? You got to calm down woman, please!”

  Suddenly she relaxed her muscles, slyly grinned without showing her teeth, pointed her nose sharply in the air and then gently placed her hands back to her sides. Jimmie sensed that Chris knew he was caught again. Her point made, she tossed her wavy black hair back with one quick motion and slowly strutted away, confident of her triumph. From across the casino floor, Jimmie glanced to the spot where Chris was standing. Their eyes met briefly, then Jimmie turned away and headed toward her work area, leaving her Daddy, as she called him at more affectionate moments, to patch up the mess she had created.

  As she made her way to the entrance of the ladies’ lounge where she worked, her friend Yvonne, another attendant several years older, stood cleaning her eyeglasses with a tissue. Yvonne was as much a confidante as a co-worker. They often unloaded the day’s gossip on each other and on rare occasions met for a hi-ball after work. Yvonne was a single mother with three children in school, all of who were born before her eighteenth birthday.

  “You lookin’ kinda bad this morning. What’s got you so ticked?” Yvonne asked,

  “Nothing . . . you know . . . same ol’ shit,” she said, “I’m getting mighty tired of it.”

  “What’s you mean, the good reverend being an asshole again?”

  “No, jus’ his usual self. He’s done this shit a few times over the last seven years. I should know better. Zebras don’t change their stripes, and he ain’t changin’ his ways. Shit, that’s how I got him in the first place—I stole him away from his first wife back in Canton, Mississippi.”

  “You mean he was married before? You never told me that.” Yvonne said.

  “Honey, there’s a truckload I ain’t told you.” Jimmie said as she motioned for them to step into the ladies’ room. Jimmie marched right to the lighted vanity mirror and began primping her hair, with Yvonne right behind.

  “Oh yeah, he was married to this prissy little thing, a preacher’s wife who acted ‘high sadity’ and all,” Jimmie said bobbing her head and pouting her lips in mocking gesture. “That’s when he first came to the church,” she said as she lit a cigarette.

  “What’s you doin’ lighting up in here, one of these days you’re gonna get caught.” Yvonne said. Jimmie just brushed it off.

  “He was the new minister, and it seemed like every girl in Canton was at his sermons. I mean everyone. He caused a big stir when he came into town. Not that he’s a good-looking hunk or anything; it wasn’t that. He was a young, strong, man with that boomin’ voice that just made every gal wet as a watermelon.” She paused a moment to reflect then said, “It was more of what his sermons were about that got me, though. He always preached about how we needed to ‘unshackle ourselves from the chains of bondage’ that whiteys kept locked down tight. He’d always preach like he was talking directly at me.

  “Growing up in Mississippi, we was sharecroppers and my papa always told me that I was special and didn’t have to take up pickin’ cotton like he was for those white owners. The white landowners was the real problem.” With her head down she raised her eyes at Yvonne and continued. “O’course, I ain’t had to pick no cotton when my papa was alive, that was a job fo’ my brothers and sisters. I was special. So I got to do the house cleanin’.”

  “So you mean to tell me he knew he was talkin’ to you?”

  Yvonne asked.

  “No, he didn’t know nothin’. But everybody respected him and I knew that I had somethin’ in common with him that nobody else did.”

  “What’s that?”

  “We felt the same way about whiteys. Hell, they’re doin’ the same thing now—look who owns this hotel, who do we work for? Honkies. We can’t even gamble here. We just have to stay out a the way and do the dirty work.”

  “That’s the way it’s always been.” Yvonne stated, “You ain’t tellin’ me nothing new. But at least there’s one good thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Well, we ain’t dirty Indians, are we?” Yvonne said while raising her hand to her face feigning privacy.

  “No, we surely ain’t.” Jimmie agreed.

  “What I’m trying to find out is how you got such a fine preacher to go after you in the first place?”

  “The very next Sunday I jus’ dressed up in my most outrageous red dress with a wide brimmed white hat with red trim—to match the dress, and white gloves. I pushed my breasts up and put on red lipstick, white pumps. I was set,” Jimmie said.

  “What’s you tryin’ to be, a candy cane?”

  “Yeah, a candy cane that was gonna make him wanna lick me from head to toe!” They both giggled and she continued, “He couldn’t take his eyes off me. I was innocent and pure, and in his eyes I was ripe, ready to be picked. So I jus’ wiggled my way in between that Miss Prissy wife of his. He didn’t have a chance.”

  “Innocent and pure! Who you tryin’ to fool girl?”

  “Hey, I’m a good actress. Besides they didn’t call me Pretty Jimmie for nothing! Shit, when I was back home I was the prettiest girl in Canton, and the sexiest, and the most outspoken, and the most popular. All the men wanted me, and,” she added half-heartily, “most of them had me.”

  “But what kind of preacher would drop everything for a pretty piece of ass?” Yvonne asked, and then shook her head. “Never mind—that’s the dumbest question I ever asked.”

  Jimmie Lee just glanced at her and smiled. “He didn’t just drop everything. It took a while for all that to happen. Hey, he did some serious Bible thumping.”

  A few years earlier, from the very first service that Jimmie attended, as she watched Chris preach from the pulpit, she felt the warmth and love expressed by his powerful voice burn inside her. As Reverend Chris Greenwade eloquently moralized the teachings of the Gospel, she noticed men also followed his spiritual leadership and women were captivated by his every word. Jimmie saw that as his hallmark, his attraction; to project his soft tone and resolute manner to each and every one as if they alone were the focus of his attention.

  Jimmie realized then that this natural sermonizer believed in the Gospel and viewed himself as an instrument of God. She also realized that he was ambitious and conscious of his own magnetism. But she also was aware of his practical side as he cautiously kept the women of his ministry at a safe distance. Nevertheless, throughout the community she heard of many rumors of his indiscretions with the sisters of the church.

  Chris straightened up as the security guard approached him at the
shoe stand. “What’s going on over here?” he asked.

  “Oh, nothing,” Chris answered with a smile. “One of my parishioners has a serious problem and we’d been discussing it.”

  “You’re the preacher . . . I heard about you,” said the young, white guard who looked more like a boy in his father’s baggy uniform. He looked up at Chris with contempt in his eyes and a high pitch in his voice. “You have a church?”

  “Sure, well . . . it’s not mine, but I use it for my ministry.”

  “You have a lot of your people in the congregation?” He asked.

  “My people?” Chris hesitated then added, “Not as many as I had when I was back in the South where I came from.”

  “Well, Mr. Preacher, this ain’t no church, and you ain’t preachin’ in here, so keep your parishioners away.”

  “Yeah, sure,” said Chris as the guard turned and walked off, “whatever you say.” He picked up a small can of Shinola and stared into it as he thought about his life with Jimmie.

  From their first meeting in Mississippi, he realized Jimmie was pursuing him, unashamedly, without regard to the consequences. Chris visualized this young temptress as a “blessing from Heaven” and affectionately called her “Blessie,” a name only she understood. No matter what he did, he always succumbed to her sensuality, and that’s why he stayed with her so long.

  “And I wasn’t interested in no one-night stand either,” Jimmie said emphatically. I let everyone know that we were going to live together. Cause everyone thought it was just a scandal! The good preacher chasin’ after that young girl.”

  “You mean everyone thought that he was after you?” Yvonne asked.

  “I told you I was a good actress. Everyone knows that!” Jimmie boasted. “Besides, I convinced him to leave his wife so that we could live together—which we did. But it got so crazy with all the gossip and all, that he couldn’t even preach his sermons anymore. And . . . and he was even foolin’ around on me, ’cept I couldn’t prove it. We’d fight like cats and dogs and then I’d get drunk. Finally, he just moved off to LA.”