CHAPTER 8

He hated the job.

That is to say, he liked the idea behind the job, but hated the normal "nine to five" routine of the work.

"Not for this fun-loving, bed-hopping, man-about-town!" He expound to anyone within range . . . so long as they had no connections with his boss.

When Blackwell had offered him the position of assistant in the 'wild and crazy' world of management, he had thought it would be a free ride. He would be getting paid for just goofing off.

"Just think," he had said to some poor sap who was too drunk to get away at the bar. "The rock and roll world! Knowing all those crazy guys personally. Going to their parties. Having all the great-looking chicks following me around. Drinking expensive wines, eating the finest meals, and -- after a few years -- writing a bestseller about some down-and-out superstar who'd been in my confidence. Yeah, that'll be great! Right, buddy? Buddy? Hey . . . wake up!"

It should have been the perfect situation, but it was not. His days were full of paperwork, phone calls, and arguments. Everyday, he had to deal with the freaks and weirdoes who swarmed through the office doors; all trying to get a contract with the famous Blackwell.

People asked him all the time what it was that Blackwell did. As far as Herb Parker could tell, nothing. Blackwell would come into the building every so often, head for his private office, and slam the door behind him. He would only show up when the people he wanted to see had an appointment. Otherwise, not only was he not there, but he was never to be informed of any other business unless he specifically asked for it first. Parker could not see how Blackwell was able to actually do anything with the way he ran his business.

But, whatever Blackwell did, he did it well. All the artists he had gone after had not only signed with him, they had suddenly become extremely successful . . . even the acts that no one else would touch in a million years. It was almost like magic.

Still, being a glorified secretary was not Parker's idea of a good time; although he tried to keep his annoyance to himself. The one time he had brought it to Blackwell's attention, Parker had wished he had not. Blackwell's face had darkened for a moment, then an evil smile had played on his lips.

"Do not worry, soon things will change. You'll become a very important man in this business. In fact, I would think that you'll have more power than you can imagine." Blackwell slowly spoke the words as he kept his palms tightly pressed together in front of him.

"Oh, yeah?" Parker had retaliated. "When?"

"Soon. Very soon."

It may have been good news, but Blackwell's wording had left Parker with a couple of sleepless nights as the words replayed in his mind. Parker never brought up the topic again after that. Instead, he just did his job and tried not to let things get to him.

Today, however, things were starting to do just that. The paperwork was piling up, the phone was ringing off the hook and he was exhausted. He had forgotten his lunch at home and, when he attempted to go back and pick it up, found that his car's battery was dead due to him leaving the lights on after getting to work that morning. When Blackwell came in, he immediately locked himself into his office without a word to Parker.

And now there was some long-haired freak waiting in the lobby for his appointment to begin.

The "freak" was stretched out on the couch, his black t-shirt getting crumpled and wrinkled as he fidgeted about, trying to find a comfortable position. The couch was much too short of the man's rather lanky frame, and his feet dangled over the arm, absentmindedly tapping an expensive lamp closer and closer to the edge of the end table.

When the man had arrived, Parker had hoped he had come to the wrong place. But Blackwell confirmed his appointment, via-intercom, and told his assistant to cater to the man's needs.

Parker cringed as the lamp teetered precariously, then righted itself; only to be scooted farther away by a large, sneaker-clad foot. The man on the couch did not seem to notice his actions as he was busying himself with the book he had read a dozen times before, THE CHARIOTS OF THE GODS? As it should be, for the book was an important piece of literature.

At least, he seemed to think so.

Seeing the lamp begin to wobble again, Parker opened his mouth to call the man's attention to the situation, but his concern was suddenly directed toward the office's door as Parker heard it open and close. He looked up to see three long-haired men dressed in strange concoctions of leather, platform shoes and garish jewelry. A feeling of hopelessness came over him as he stared at the alien figures. Drawing in a deep breath, he spoke. "Yes. Can I help you . . . errr . . .Gentlemen?"

The three men stared at him for several seconds, then the one in the middle -- the apparent leader -- turned to his left and arched one eyebrow questioningly. The short man on his left began to crack up, trying to stifle his laughter. Casually, the tall, dark figure in the middle stepped forward and held out his hand.

"I'm Gene Simmons -- "

Parker stared at him vacantly. Dropping his hand, Gene rolled his eyes and motioned to his left.

"This is Peter Criss --"

Peter stood with his arms folded across his chest, a smile on his face. Gene pointed his thumb toward the man on his right, who was staring blankly at one corner of the room.

" -- and this is Paul Stanley. We're all members of the group KISS. We have an appointment with Mr. Blackwell."

"Ah yes," Parker said, finally recovering from his initial shock. "I've been informed of your appointment, so I'll tell him you're all here."

Parker rolled his chair away from his desk, stood up and headed for Blackwell's office. Just as he reached for the doorknob, Peter called after him.

"Um, wait a minute. Ace Frehley, the other guy in the band, isn't here yet. He's late --"

"As usual," Paul muttered for the first time since they entered the office. Peter ignored him.

" -- and we'd rather wait for him before talking to Blackwell."

Parker stood at the door, a confused look on his face.

"But . . . but, Mr. Frehley is right behind you."

The three musicians turned and saw Ace lying on the couch, his nose buried in the pages of his book. Without looking up, he raised his right hand in greeting.

"Hallo, Curlies."

"Oh," Peter stammered, feeling rather embarrassed, "okay. I guess we can go ahead then."

Shaking his head, Parker opened the door, not fully comprehending. As he pulled the door closed, Gene, Paul and Peter walked over to the couch. Ace put down his book and looked up at the others innocently.

"What are you doing here?" Paul demanded.

"Why do you ask? Wasn't I supposed to be here?"

"Well, yeah," Gene answered. "But we just thought . . . ."

"That I'd be late?" Ace shot back, shifting his body around so he was now sitting up on the couch. "Oh, I see. You just automatically assume that I'll be late for everything. That I can't keep appointments, right?"

"Yeah." The three said in unison.

"Well, I just want you to know that I can be punctual if necessary. I know when and where I'm supposed to be at all times. In fact, I've been sitting here for half an hour, just to be sure I was on time. So there!"

None of the others spoke. Ace looked at them in reproof, then a mischievous grin appeared on his face.

"Actually," he said quietly, "I thought the meeting was supposed to start a couple of hours ago."

There was a brief pause, then the four of them burst into laughter.

Parker cautiously entered the office.

The enormous room seemed bare, with only a desk, six chairs, and a small wooden cabinet as its furnishings. Deep brown carpeting stretched across the floor to meet dark oak-paneled walls, giving the illusion of cave like surroundings. It was as if the room was a giant mouth, waiting to swallow up some victim like a tiny morsel of food.

Blackwell sat at the massive oak desk, shuffling through the papers in front of him. Directly behind his were deep blue drapes covering the entire wall. Parker had once been told that the wall was glass, from floor to ceiling, and that one could see the entire city from its view.

He had never seen Blackwell open the drapes.

Blackwell wore a navy blue, tailored business suit, which contrasted blatantly with the open shirt, leisure suit, and gold medallions which made up Parker's "hip" outfit. He stared at a report on a band he was not interested in, written by someone he did not know. Tossing the paper aside, he reached for another from the neat stacks on his desk. Parker cleared his throat in order to get the other man's attention.

"Hey, excuse me, Blackwell-baby?"

Blackwell twitched the corner of his mouth, annoyed by the pest in front of him. "I was wondering when you'd open that mouth of yours, Parker." Blackwell did not look up as he spoke. "Well, what is it?"

Parker felt unsure of himself. Was not "baby" what everyone called each other in this business?

"Those four guys who call themselves KISS are here."

Blackwell glanced up, as he put the file in his hand back on the pile.

"Good. Send them right in."

Parker exited, then returned with the band. He took one last look at the scene, shook his head, and left, closing the door behind him.

Paul and Gene stood close together, surveying the office. Peter studied Blackwell, who returned the gesture. Just inside the door was Ace, trying to find a place for his paperback book. After a moment, he shrugged and stuffed it into his back pocket.

Finally, Blackwell -- beaming proudly -- rose from his chair and offered his hand to Paul.

"Gentlemen. I'm glad you were all able to be here today. I am Blackwell."

He shook each man's hand, greeting them by name.

"Well, you seem to know who we are," Gene said as their host finished his round of salutations.

Blackwell chuckled. "I make it my business to know everything possible about prospective clientele. Oh, but I'm forgetting my manners. Please, gentlemen, make yourselves comfortable."

The band sat down in four chairs arranged in front of Blackwell's desk as Blackwell moved over to the cabinet. He took five long-stemmed glasses from it and began to pour champagne.

"Would you like something to drink?" He asked.

"Yes!" Ace exclaimed. "I'll have -- "

"Nothing for us, thanks," Paul cut in sharply, looking angrily at his band mate.

Ace sunk back in his chair, pouting dejectedly. Paul ignored him and continued.

"You said in your letter that you wished to speak with us."

"About management. Yes." Blackwell returned to his desk and scooted his chair forward. He pressed his palms together, resting his chin on his fingertips. "But before we get into that, I'm sure you're all interested in knowing exactly what sort of establishment I run. You've heard some of the acts I already manage, haven't you?"

"Yes," Gene answered, sneering unintentionally. He had heard a few of Blackwell's bands, and most of them were playing total garbage. Why they were successful he did not know, but the public was eating it up. Worse yet, he sometime caught himself humming along when one came on the radio.

"Good," Blackwell, continued, noting Gene's displeasure silently, "then you also know that most of them are becoming extremely popular."

Gene and Paul nodded in agreement. Peter and Ace ignored the preceding as they stared at each other in order to crack each other up in front of the others.

"Frankly," I like your band's image," Blackwell put his palms face-down on the table. "I believe there is a . . . raw power within the group which can be utilized to everyone's advantage. You must feel it. There is more to KISS than music. Last month, your album ALIVE! went gold, your shows are starting to sell out, etcetera . . . but there could be more. Much more."

"Please do not misunderstand me. I am in no way insinuating that your present management is in error, only understated. You're setting your sights much too low. After you hear my proposal in detail, I'm sure you'll agree."

"Mr. Blackwell," Gene interrupted. "Before you go any further, I'd like to speak for everyone here by saying that your interest in KISS is indeed. . . generous. And your knowledge and contribution to the music world recently has impressed upon us even more that, with your request to speak with us, you are conveying that KISS is of interest to all in the pop world. However, we already have a management agreement which suits our tastes well, and we do not feel that changing firms would be to our benefit."

Blackwell rose from his seat, a cold, menacing glint in his eyes.

"Mr. Simmons, that's all very well, but you haven't heard my proposal yet. You know of my history with clients, you know I can do a lot for you. What could possibly deter your decision to move to my management?"

"I understand what you are saying, Mr. Blackwell," Gene's voice rose just slightly in the exchange of words between the two. "But we have been with a company that stood by us in our lean years when they could have let us go at any time. We would like to repay that favor to them now that we are finally on our feet."

"Mr. Simmons," Blackwell said in staccatos. "I feel you are putting the future of the band in jeopardy."

Paul was getting uncomfortable. It seemed to him that Gene was being much too "business-like," even though it was obvious that Blackwell believed the boys did not know how to handle their business.

"What do you mean by that?" Paul blurted.

"I mean, Mr. Stanley," Black replied, resenting himself, "what you have now is not one-tenth of what you could achieve if you would just listen to me."

Gene was beginning to feel the same anger that Paul was feeling. "Mr. Blackwell, we are here only as a matter of courtesy. When we received your letter six months ago, we decided to come here and tell you, as nicely as possible, that we're not interested in becoming a part of your stable of has-beens and never-weres. We are being polite. If you're going to begin this meeting by bad-mouthing our present management, then I see no point in our staying. Guys?"

Gene rose slowly, with the others following his example. The four walked tot he door and Peter reached for the doorknob.

"Mr. Simmons, you don't realize what a chance you're taking," Blackwell said, getting up from his desk. "I will not ask again."

Peter opened the door and walked out into the lobby, mumbling to himself.

"Threats, threats, threats."

Gene, Paul and Ace followed. When Ace turned back to close the door, he leaned in and looked up at Blackwell, who was still fuming.

"Your wine was probably cheap anyway."

He cackled and walked out into the lobby, pulling the door shut behind him.

Blackwell stared vacantly for several minutes, his fury steadily building, then sank back into his chair and took a long breath. He had to clear his mind in order to rethink the situation. He had not anticipated any sense of loyalty on the band members' part for their old record label. Nor that the suggestions of more power and more control over decision-making would have little effect on them.

It was frustrating to Blackwell. Under his management, they would have been in the ideal position for his plans to work within the year. He had spent months setting up his operation, covering his tracks when needed, getting the background established to make winning over the Talisman holders an easy task. All for nothing.

Swiveling his chair to face the curtains, he parted the drapes and gazed at the brightly-lit city below. The door creaked open, breaking his concentration, as Parker crept into the office.

Parker had heard most of the commotion. No one had ever spoken to Blackwell in such a shocking manner. His employer was obviously upset, so much so that Parker felt he should show his encouragement and get on Blackwell's good side.

"Hey, Blackie, what about those freaks? I'll bet you're glad to get rid of them."

Blackwell's fingers tightened on the drapes.

"Come over here, Mr. Parker," he ordered, not taking his eyes from the view before him. "I would like to explain something to you."

"Um . . . . Su-sure."

Parker walked over to the window and stood silent for several seconds.

"What was it that they --"

Blackwell's free hand was suddenly at this assistant's throat and beginning to squeeze. His features showed no emotion as Parker began to gag and choke. Just enough pressure was being applied without killing.

"Now, listen carefully, Mr. Parker." Blackwell's voice was steady and smooth. "Have you ever played chess?"

Herb's eyes rolled wildly as he clutched frantically at the offending hand.

"No, I suppose not. Then let me explain something. In the game, you must trap the opponent's King. Force him to surrender. Yet it is not a game won quickly. Not a game that is won by the fastest pieces, nor the most powerful.

"Among the pieces are several pawns. The weakest piece. Yet, if played wisely and meticulously, they can become the most powerful and destroy the other player's chances to survive the game.

"Think about this the next time you refer to those so-called 'freaks.' They are the pawns, the most powerful pieces. You, on the other hand, are not even on the board."

Tears streamed down Parker's crimson cheeks and onto the vise-like hand. As he continued to struggle, Blackwell tightened his grip and grinned wickedly.

"I ought to snap your wretched neck, but I need you for my plan. Oh, and one more thing. If you say 'freaks,' 'baby,' or twist my name in such a manner ever again, I shall twist your body until it snaps. Do you understand?"

Parker nodded, barely conscious. Blackwell released him and he collapsed, gasping for air. Scrambling to this feet, he stumbled toward the door.

"Of course, Mr. parker, you realize the consequences should you mention this little incident to anyone."

Parker halted, staring nervously at Blackwell, then dropped his eyes to the floor as he clutched blindly at the doorknob.

Blackwell's expression suddenly turned dangerously pleasant.

"Mr. Parker, you look exhausted. I should think you deserve the rest of the day off."

Quickly, Parker opened the door and scurried to safety. Blackwell's last words followed him out.

"Remember, Parker, the pawn can destroy the King."

Alone once again, Blackwell sat back, savoring the panic he'd instilled in the little man; then his mind turned back to the Guardians and his brow furrowed. He knew that today had not gone according to plan, but it was unimportant. Just a setback -- a minute detail in the grand scheme. Parker would be useful still, and so would the management firm. He would get them. One way or another.

At the thought, a smile slowly spread across his face.

"Yes," he whispered, "even the pawn can destroy the King."

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