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legion—Walter Mosley’s Mouse; James Lee Burke’s Clete Purcell; Robert Crais’ Joe Pike; Harlan Coben’s Wynn; my own Bubba Rogowski. I’m not going to say none of those just mentioned would have existed without Hawk, just that Hawk existed first, so any question on the subject starts with him, no one else.
    The dark angel can do what the good guy hero can’t. He’s unbound by morality—either his own or the readers’. In onenovel, when Spenser and Hawk have just had a confrontation with a particularly nasty piece of work who they know will continue to come after them, they leave the guy lying on the floor, a bloody mess. But then Hawk tells Spenser he has to kill the guy or they’ll never be safe. Spenser says, “I can’t kill a guy lying on the floor,” to which Hawk replies, “Shit, I can.” And shoots the guy.
    If a hero does that enough times, he’s no longer a hero. But the dark angel can do it and the audience applauds. Maybe because everyone wants a dark angel, and maybe because everyone has experienced the exquisite pleasure of giving into the will of the id. A main character who consistently gives in to the will of his id grows morally reprehensible and—far worse—dramatically uninteresting. But a secondary character who occasionally gives in to his id becomes the main character’s id. That’s what the dark angel archetype is—the unrestrained id of the otherwise above-board main character.
    And if Parker didn’t exactly create the archetype, he certainly perfected it. Soon nothing was more disappointing to discover in a Spenser book than the news that Hawk would not be appearing in it. Luckily, after a while, Parker realized it and kept Hawk, if not front and center, certainly at the top of the cast list.
    When I ran that signing for Bob in 1984, Hawk was part of every third question his creator got. The questions were variations on a theme that can be distilled to this: “Do you know a real Hawk, and how can I get one?”
    I watched Bob answer a permutation of that question at least fifty times in the hour he signed. And his answer was always steady, never annoyed. That’s not to say he wasn’t annoyed (if you like answering the same question fifty times in an hour, I’ve got a group of four-year-olds I’d like to send to your house), but that the annoyance was easily temperedand even wholly overwhelmed by the gratitude he felt toward people who cared so much about his work. There was nothing about Bob that was obsequious or eager to get you to like him. He was gruff and gravel-voiced and clearly had a limited tolerance for idiots and small talk. But he was also ever the gentleman, ever gracious with his fans.
    Afterward, I walked him out of the bookstore and asked him if it ever got old—the same questions, the same requests, the same signature, over and over.
    He stopped. He cocked his head and looked at me with his deadpan face and walrus moustache. “How in God’s name,” he said, “could it ever get old, kid?”
    I remember watching him cross Tremont Street and then turn down School Street and I thought, “That is one cool son of a bitch.” And then I thought, “How could it ever get old?”
    Fifteen years later, I discussed that moment with Bob. He didn’t remember the signing (I hadn’t expected him to), and he didn’t remember the exchange. But he told me nothing had changed. We lucky, lucky few get paid to sit in a room and think shit up. We put that to paper and people read it and show up at bookstores to tell us thanks. Anyone who ever has a problem with that, in my opinion—and in Bob’s—needs to try a real job on for size. One where no one applauds you or thanks you for your effort or even notices you. We have one of the best jobs in the world. And I know it not just because it’s true but because he knew it and told me so when I was callow and knew nothing and needed to hear it.
    Boston is, as I’ve acknowledged, an in-your-face town that values honesty