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101 You know how I need it, Sweetheart: all my orders are To Go. I’m the king of Carry-Out. Today I’m good for a dozen—half rye, half rolls. These are heading down to the station, so pile it on a little thick, okay? They know me there. I’m a regular no-baloney guy making sure the cops get a decent shot at lunch. You can’t say I don’t love Dallas, but still: give me Chicago for cold cuts a man like me could die for—hot pastrami, corned beef, tongue that doesn’t quit. I go for sandwiches in a big way, a handful of good will folks can sink their teeth into. And people remember certain things. Don’t get me started on how crazy it is sometimes to be me, in Texas. But then I’ve always liked going out of my way if it lets me in on the action. When you’re the one with sandwiches, you let other people do the talking. Just look who’s talking now, right? I need sandwiches, I’m friendlier. So to speak. Human nature, if you ask me. I’ve studied it. I’m talking my whole life. Go ahead and ask me is there anything I don’t know about human nature. I’m here to tell you mostly it’s not much: I’m talking one sorry load of chicken salad sandwiches bagged up in the front seat of a car in the Dallas sun. At noon. You know it won’t be long before it goes completely bad. And we’re Texas, down here so Deep in the Heart that it’s never been lip-smacking good to begin with. So what do I finally owe you? Here’s a twenty. Keep the change and get yourself something later. Something you’ve always been I. Jack Ruby Orders the Chicken Salad: November 21, 1963 102 meaning to. On me. I’m talking something extra: a little bit of trouble or excitement you don’t really need. That we can live without either one, thank you, is no good reason. I’m talking America, getting whatever we deserve. Human nature: remember that. Remember me to the rest of the shift. I’ll be back. I’m always coming back. And next time, you can cut the Mister jazz. Jack is good enough. ...

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