I turned 17 in the summer of 1956. The morning of my birthday I woke up in a Jefferson Parish jail cell.

I'd like to tell you that I didn't know that the Cadillac I stole belonged to the Sheriff, but that would be a lie. I'd also like to tell you that I didn't know that the 17 year old girl I had in the car with me was the Sheriff's daughter, but that too would be less than honest.

If you were looking for trouble in Jefferson parish I guess I'd be the fellow to see in 1956. I wasn't a bad kid really, today they probably would have called me a troubled youth. Back then the rubber stamp on my police jacket just said "juvenile delinquent".

Some people said I never had much of a chance. I was born on July 5, 1939 in a Bourbon Street bordello. My mom was a 19 year old working girl who also never had much of a chance, I guess. She wanted to name me after my daddy, but considering the circumstances that fact became a bit blurry in the light of day nine months down the road. The closest she could come to the truth was to name me Trick. Quite a sense of humor my mother had. I loved my mom but she was a hard lady to like sometimes, if you can grab hold of what I'm trying to say here.

It was in that old whore house that I learned to play piano and love the feel of red velvet. By the time I was 14 I was playing boogie woogie and barrel house blues in the front parlor for the customers during working hours.

My Grandmere and madam of the house also made sure I got a proper education. I was tutored from the age of five by a fellow who was once a professor at Tulane. He is the fellow who taught me the three Rs. He is also the fellow who taught me to cheat at cards, play piano, smoke cigarettes, and drink like I meant it. While I was with him I never saw Smilin' Jim drunk but I rarely saw him sober. He was my beau grandpere and I loved him as a boy should love his grandfather.

He passed away in the winter of 1954. I had spent most of the day in my room with a deck of cards fine tuning my second deal. Working with a pegged deck, I was able to deal five hands of poker and drop the winning hand on any position. That's a funny thing that most people don't know about cheating at cards. You can't deal yourself the winning hand. You have to work with a partner or two. In the back room of a whore house, poker games are rarely a game of chance; more often than not, two or three out of the five people playing are cheating together as a team. I was feeling pretty puffed up about the finish I had put on my work and brought the cards into Jim's room.

When I opened the door, I saw him as I always did. He was sitting by the fireplace with a glass in his hand and a bottle on the table. His eyes were open and he looked at nothing with a faint smile on his lips. Both the glass and the bottle were empty and I didn't know that he had left until I touched his hand and felt the still coolness. He was 68 years old and all things considered I guess he'd say he'd had a pretty good run.

It was shortly thereafter my mother married an oil rig rough neck and former customer named Jerry. We moved to Jefferson Parish and about that time my trouble began.

I guess most of the problem was I was just bored. Jefferson Parish was the very definition of L7. I'm talking about Squareville, USA, dad. Most folks in East Jefferson would spend Saturday night sitting on their front porch just watching the moss grow on the Cyprus.

The first time I got in trouble, I had a fight with these two boys in school. When the kids find out your momma was a whore, they have a tendency to get a little rough. I just wasn't the type to stand for it and left them both bloody. When a fellow learns to fight on Basin street with kids who have nothing to lose, a couple of guys from Jefferson Parish wearing letterman sweaters don't put up much of a brawl. It was a bit of a disappointment really. I don't mean to sound like a tough guy because I never was much of a fighter. Those boys on Basin street used to send me home with more bumps than they ever walked away with it's just that East Jefferson, - well, it's just a different part of the world, is all.

My mom had to go down to the school and that didn't go too well. The principal alluded to her questionable moral reputation and that just didn't sit right with her. When Jerry came home from the rig and found out what had happened he went down to the school and broke the principals nose, then he came home and blackened my eye. I never loved Jerry and he was a hard man to like sometimes. Out of respect for my Mom, I tried not to complain too much about it.

After that I had a few more run ins with the local law. I stole some liquor, there was a mailbox fiasco that ended with a malicious damage charge, I got into a few more fights... and then came the Sheriff's daughter.

Man, she was something.

I met her two weeks before my birthday in the crushed shell parking lot of Buckie's Bar-B-Q. Buckie's was a tin roofed dump that served great Po' Boys and cheap beer. Cheri was a waitress and a redhead. I'm here to tell you, man, when that girl was put together, there wasn't a brick left out of place.

I was looking for work as a piano player and singer. I figured Buckie might like some Friday night entertainment, so I borrowed Jerry's pickup truck and loaded the upright piano in the back. I guess I could have just asked Buckie first, but I figured seeing was believing.

I pulled into the lot and saw Buckie's Lincoln parked around the side. I parked out front, hopped into the back, untied the bench from the piano and sat down to play.

I put my left hand to work seven to the bar and let my right hand unwind up the scale.

When Buckie stepped out to see what the hell was going on, I tore the muffler off and let it rip. Smilin' Jim always said my right hand was so fast and accurate that if I wasn't a piano player I could have been a gunslinger. That always made me smile and I was grinnin' like a fool when Buckies jaw dropped open and his cigar fell onto the stoop.

It wasn't long before the rest of the joint filed out and gathered around the truck. There were a lot of smiling faces. A couple started to dance in the headlights and that was when I saw her leaning against the door jam smiling at me. The light from the bar left her standing in a glow, and to me she looked like an angel. I jumped up to get a better look and the piano bench flew out from underneath me and tumbled over the tailgate. The crowd responded with a cheer and I gave the end of the song a ride before I stopped it dead with a double thump on a C chord.

Buckie walked over to the truck lighting another cigar and said, "What's your name, kid?"

"Trick."

"You looking for work, boy?"

"Yes sir."

"Well, you're hired."

He looked over his shoulder at no one in particular and said, "Boys, help him get that piano inside. I need to sell some beer."

Ten minutes later I was working. I played for four hours that first night and made five dollars. Cheri the barroom angel brought me an oyster Po' Boy on my break and flirted with me. By the end of the night I was bone tired and in my element. I'm here to tell you it was a fine way to spend an evening.

Buckie said I could leave the piano and play Friday and Saturday nights for ten bucks a week. He also said I could come in and eat for free any time I felt like it, and that was just fine by me.

When I was walking out the door, Cheri stopped me and said, "Boy, you surely can play that thing."

I smiled and said, "That is a fact ma'am, and thank you kindly for noticing."

"You working Friday?"

"Yes, ma'am."

" You want to take a girl to the matinee on Saturday?"

"I think that might be arranged."

She looked at me for a long second, pulling on her pony tail, and smiled. Then she turned on her heels and swung her way back to the kitchen.

She was cool, man, real cool. I should have known then that she was trouble, and you know, I think I did - I just didn't give a shit. What the hell, Trouble could have been my middle name if my momma had thought to give me one.


To be continued...