Graham Reid: Gun totin' dude upstages parrot

In the fuzzy Polaroid I am standing next to a short, goofy-looking guy with a curly blond Afro. He's holding a multicoloured cocktail. And I have a parrot on my head.

It was at a travel industry function in Miami Beach, and representatives of many countries, every American state and dozens of major cities, and many small tourist operators, were there to sell their destinations by day - and party by night.

Del, the goofy-looking guy, came from a dude ranch in central California and although he promoted it enthusiastically he was really there to party.

Every night, squadrons of buses would pull up outside the hotels we were staying in - more than 500 delegates and I, who happened to be in town - and then truck us off to a beach or pool party hosted by some rum or vodka company.

Tables bowed at the middle under the weight of the silver buckets full of seafood, and waiters made sure no one was sober after half an hour of arrival.

Inevitably, people did silly things. On the first night a guy from New York, who had three children, dived off the top of a fountain into a few centimetres of water and killed himself. That delegation went home immediately.

But mostly people just partied and paid for it, or ended up in the wrong bed. Or were photographed with a parrot on their head.

Del and I had hit it off and on the night of the parrot incident we both felt we'd had enough of loud drunken blondes from Texas. So we hopped a cab back to his hotel to have a quiet night and see what was in his minibar.

We sat and chatted and swapped stories, and at some point we started talking about guns.

Del had one - he pulled it from a briefcase - and told me he'd once shot someone. Not shot him dead, but he'd brought him down.

It seemed that a few years before Del - who looked utterly harmless in a Harpo Marx kind of way - was the proud owner of an expensive car. He was also in possession of a gun and a cocaine habit.

One night in LA, when wired-up, he heard someone in his yard and, fearing his car was being tampered with, grabbed his gun and ran outside.

Sure enough some kid was going at his car door with a screwdriver.

The kid took off. Del gave chase, caught up, and crash-tackled him. The kid stabbed at him with the screwdriver - which explained the scars on his arm and shoulder - then got up to run off.

Del fired three shots, one of which hit the kid in the leg and brought him down.

The kid - maybe 16 or 17 - wasn't hurt too badly so Del said he yelled some more and told him to go home and never come near his place. He didn't.

Nor did the police - which was just as well because Del had white powder all over the coffee table - and he was still in his underwear.

He left LA shortly afterwards and cleaned himself up at the dude ranch owned by a friend of the family.

He recounted this in a flat and unadorned manner - although at the end he gave a little James Brown funky dance and whooped "livin' in America" - and afterwards I couldn't think of anything to say.

We shook hands and said goodnight. The following day I waved at him from across the convention hall, but we didn't catch up again.

Somewhere I've got that photo of our brief encounter and have shown it to a few friends who always ask - as if having a parrot on my head is not worthy of comment - "Who is the goofy-looking guy?"

So I tell them.