Since he had moved to New Orleans, he knew now that the street down which the parades progressed was almost always St. Charles Avenue, not in the French Quarter that had become his home, that the costumed people were members of societies called "krewes," and that what they were flinging to their audiences were known, appropriately enough, as "throws." Beyond that, he knew nothing.

He had not been in town long enough to see the festival yet. It was still months away. He was looking forward to Mardi Gras, but not with the enthusiasm of the people around him, who were working on building floats. Men and women in protective eye and ear gear, aprons, and gloves leaned over spinning, howling lathes, carving out the framework of the giant heads that would be attached to the fronts or rears of the theme floats. Others slid tools over pieces of timber, flicking curls of orange wood to the floor, where they became lost in the heaps of shavings already there. When those carvings were finished, they joined heaped pieces of frame at the side of the several unfinished floats, which looked like stripped-down flatbed trucks. Busy crews--or should Griffen say krewes?--hoisted the pieces into place to form the sterns of galleons, or regal, high-backed thrones, or demicastles. After them came men in dusty coveralls and breather masks, spraying fiberglass or papier-mache to fill in the spaces in between and give shape to the design. Expert decorators worked at putting the huge faces into place, painting, varnishing, and gilding. The acrid fumes made his eyes water. The colors were every hue in the rainbow, but gold, green, and purple predominated. Griffen was fascinated.

"It woul' mean a lot to plenty of people if you woul' say yes," the scruffy-haired man at his side said, patting the nose of a roaring lion taller than he as if it were a friendly dog.