Janet Evanovich Making of the Man

**Thank you Janet for dreaming up these imaginary characters so that we could embellish them, and add some real life to them. Need I say more?**

**I am working on something else but it is not ready and this one shot jumped out and refused to leave. Not sure what the devil my muse was thinking of, but hope you like it.**

**Thanks again Megan for your timely hints. Sigh; she's back to her yellow pen again! **

**All mistakes are mine.**

MAKING OF THE MAN

What the hell did I get myself into now? I'm looking at some serious time in the State Penitentiary. The Judge sitting up front looked down at me and called it my third strike. I think I am screwed as I'm turning eighteen next month and no longer a juvenile delinquent.

The Judge gave me a choice: serve time for my country in the Army or serve time for myself in a jail cell.

My name is Ricardo Carlos Manoso and I am standing in the prisoner's box, dressed in an orange jumpsuit and shackled ankles to wrists.

I thought of my options and I agreed to sign my life away for three years in the Army. The Judges' gavel banged down sealing my fate.

My family had stood watching as I left town. They shed tears as I prepared to board the train taking me away. Secretly I shed tears too. I was leaving everyone I knew and even some I loved for this foray into the unknown . I knew they were hoping that I would maybe amount to something good with my life At least it would keep them from continually dreading receiving that phone call in the middle of the night that I had been arrested again, or heaven forbid, found dead in an dirty alley somewhere.

The bus stopped at a massive gate. The gates slid slowly open and we were treated to the first view of Army Depot. Busses upon busses were disgorging men. We looked at each other in shock. We had thought that we would be all together in one group. We had called ourselves The Miami Group, sort of like a gang. It sounded safer, almost.

Climbing off the bus after the long train ride, I was greeted to shouting green uniformed men cursing us in general and a few in particular as we stood in a semblance of a line, our bags or suitcases by our feet. I was unsure if I should remove the plastic tag hanging on a string around my neck identifying me as heading to Army Depot. I was pretty stiff from sitting in uncomfortable rail car seats then in a very uncomfortable green army bus that looked like surplus from WWII.

One more of the seemingly endless green army guys walked down the line gathering up the large brown envelopes we had been ordered to bring with us.

We were told to step forward as our name was called and directed to follow another green clad angry man. I was not sure what had happened to make them grumpy but I guess at 1:30 in the morning they hadn't had time for their beauty sleep.

We were marshalled into some kind of group and led to a building, jogging with our baggage in our hands. We were directed to drop our luggage on a bunk and wait inside. Little did we really know what was ahead. I had never been to camp but I knew bunk beds and I muscled my way to a lower bunk and placed my small bag on it. I looked around defying anyone to take it off.

I moved to a wall and stood with my back to it watching carefully. I didn't have anybody I knew here who could protect me from attack and while I believed that I was currently safe, I wasn't about to take any chances. Life in a gang can be a short career unless you are careful and I prided myself on making observations and usually being right about a situation.

There were people from all walks of life by the looks of their clothes. A couple of men were wearing dress pants, some were in blue jeans, some in board shorts. There were all manner of shirts; T-shirts, dress shirts, wife beater shirts or mesh. The hairstyles were almost as diverse. Pony tails, mohawks, shaved, and buzz cuts. Piercings and tats were evident.

It was a mixture of whites and blacks, with a few of us latinos mixed in as well. We were tall, short, fat, and one stood out from the rest. It wasn't just that he was black. No, it was his demeanor, his attitude and his posture. He looked like a no-nonsense guy who gave the impression he was used to getting his way and was not afraid to let you know. I wasn't sure how afraid I should be of him but I sure wasn't in a position to take a chance. I firmly believed that I didn't want to be on the receiving end of what he might care to dish out.

He stood back from the group and looked to be measuring up everyone, just as I was doing. He glanced my way and nodded.

The door opened and another man in green stepped in. He had a sheet of paper in his hand and read off the names on the list, probably making sure he had the right captives. Herding us out the door we ran down the street to a long line of men waiting. I was beginning to feel a small tendril of dread.

As we entered the building we were told to strip down to our skivvies. We were weighed, had our hearts checked by a man with a stethoscope and our ears looked in. We read a line on the eye chart and had blood taken. Next was a line I was NOT looking forward to. Drop the skivvies and we received shots in both arms and a finale in the ass. Boy was that one mother fucker of a needle!

I noticed a few had fainted at the sight of the needles and were dragged down the line by the man following them.

I looked through the next door and my heart thudded.

I spent a lot of time on my hair. I had black, wavy thick locks that I was proud of. My heritage had been kind and women loved to run their fingers through my hair. My abuela had always commented that God had a sense of humor that I had been graced with my hair and my sisters had straight, thin and unmanageable, requiring a lot of hair products and time.

My ponytail was long and currently braided. I was directed to a chair and the ponytail I was so proud of was gone with one snip of the scissors. I could hear a razor being turned on and I felt my hair falling around me. I felt a cool breeze as I realized I was now practically bald. I felt like a sheep having just been sheared and I felt lucky to still have ears. There were no mirrors to whimper over our new do's.

On to a room where we were issued boots, socks, gauche, pants, shirts, tunic, coat, poncho,helmet, beret, shorts, T's, running shoes, shaving kits, soap, towel, toothbrushes, paste, a comb and polishing cloths, and a duffle to put it in. On we travelled to pick up bedding. Our arms were full and we were soon running back to the building I assumed was our new home.

We were told to drop the gear on our bunk and fall out outside in two minutes. Back in line, we ran again down the road and stood in line to what looked like a giant restaurant.

I grew up not knowing where my next meal was coming from but I have never in my life had a meal the size of what was being dumped on my tray. I was not sure what it all was, but there sitting on top looked suspiciously like ice cream!

Sleep, you say? Try sleeping when you have just had needles in parts of bodies that finally fall into bed at 4 am. My new favorite sleep position? Stomach.

What the hell is that noise? They want us up? We just went to bed! I'm standing at the foot of my bunk half asleep, that is until I get a blast from a whistle in my ear!

Get dressed and pack up the civvies. Not going to be seeing them for some time bro.

The first day we learned how to stand in formation, salute and shout, 'Yes Drill Sergeant or No Drill Sergeant". I guess in the army those were the only two replies to any question.

The next day they tried to teach us how to march. Some of the men were confused enough about which foot to lead with so they put marks on our left boots to remind us. It felt worse than Kindergarten!

By now I was seriously regretting not going for a nice, quiet jail cell.

I thought I knew how to make a bed. We had inspection everyday and for the first week none of us got it right on the first try, or the second, or even the third time for some.

We learned how to clean bathrooms. In my family, females cleaned bathrooms.

We mopped floors and dusted every surface we could including the tops of doors. It was dry and dusty there. We lived in fear of the white glove inspection every morning.

We learned how to wash windows.

We learned to wash and iron our uniforms. We learned how to spit polish shoes and make our brass shine.

I thought a locker was supposed to hold sports equipment. I learned there is a right way to store your belongings. Who knew! At home I had just thrown my clothes in a closet or under the bed.

Showers in cold water was an adventure. Two minutes and we were done. The big black guy complained about that saying that in two minutes he had only washed half. Needless to say, his muttered complaints fell on deaf ears.

PT in the morning was painful. I was in good shape physically but a number of my troop were not. Run together, and do not straggle. Punishment was troop wide.

I figured out one day that between push ups in PT and for any infraction, I figured I had done about 500 some days. I got pretty good. Sometimes for shits and giggles I would try it one armed, like Rambo. I usually got a few more for that stunt. Unfortunately my mouth still liked to run away sometimes but I was learning how to keep it shut, mostly.

Each day grew easier, and harder. As we learned one thing, we moved on.

They taught us how to use a knife. Well, they taught some of us how to use a knife. I knew how to use a knife, but I learned where to do the most damage. I had always been a gut man myself. I learned how to knife between the ribs, in the back, in the groin, even through an eye.

This is where friendships developed. A true buddy noticed you had not tucked in your blanket tight enough and helped. A true buddy let you lean on him as you stood in line waiting to eat. A true buddy helped with memorizing everything you needed to pass.

As in civilian life, there are people who will never be able to believe that color is only skin deep. I was on the darker side for a latino but this huge guy in my group was jet black. We kind of drifted together and watched each others' back. A few had tried to sabotage our work, or our efforts, but we both had grown up knowing how to deflect.

We learned each others' history. I had been the wheel man for a gang. I was good and the cops knew it was me, but I got sloppy and got caught one night. I firmly believe I was set up. I vowed to address that at a later date.

This guy's last name was Sherman. Like a tank, which is what I started to call him. He was not particularly impressed with the nickname since it stuck so quickly, but I threatened to start calling him Pierre, his given name. I regretted that remark later as he demonstrated during hand to hand combat what he thought of that. I figured I would stick to Tank. One of those life altering decisions, and a solid reason to know what my limits really were.

He had grown up in Louisiana and was the muscle in a gang. Nobody wanted to cross with him. Nobody wanted to have him eye you like you were dead meat. He had serious enemies who tried to kill him more than once. He had disappeared one night, hoping never to return.

Tank called me Rick from the start. He said that I had not earned a nickname as yet and he would tell me when it was time.

We became a team in more ways than one. We became friends. We were two against anybody else.

Finally, they let us touch a rifle. OMG! I was used to pistols, but a rifle! Of course, we had to learn all about it, so we cleaned it and took it apart and put it together again and again.

First we had to learn how to carry it. We carried it, oh we carried it. We carried it on our runs in the morning, we carried it to meals, we carried it to lectures. Sometimes we carried it to bed.

At night as we cleaned and polished, we kept asking when could we finally shoot our rifle?

I thought that soldiers carried it slung over their shoulders and looked cool doing it. I checked the mirror in the latrine. I stood there looking at myself with it slung over one shoulder. Damn, I looked gooood! I could see myself marching through streets having people ooh and aah as I marched past.

Imagine my surprise when the Army decreed that we carry it in both hands in front of us. Port arms, they called it. More like fall my fricking arms off as I held the damn thing. And, for gods sake, never drop it. I did once and spent the next hour kneeling in front of it, bending over it and kissing it, saying "I love my rifle" over and over.

Heaven arrived and we finally set off to the range.

The first time I fired it, I knew I was in love. I loved my rifle even more. I wanted to shoot and keep on shooting. I was a cocky shit and tried to fire using both arms. Imagine my instructor's surprise when I was almost equally good at it.

We had a final target competition and Tank and I tied with the top score.

We finally graduated from boot camp and contemplated our next move.

Rangers was suggested by a number of our instructors and we applied. Until then, we had been assigned to a unit and were undergoing more advanced combat training. We grew stronger, and more lethal each day. We were soldiers and wore the uniform proudly.

I sent a picture of me in uniform back to my parents. They actually wrote back saying how proud they were I had finished. I think they had been secretly dreading that I would not stick it out but wind up in a jail cell anyway.

We were given leave to go into town. We dressed with care. We looked good in our uniforms and wanted to show them off. We were punk kids with sloppy grins on our faces. We vowed to have a girl on each arm within the hour, and be horizontal within two.

Unfortunately I was still a punk and didn't plan very well. I must have been sleeping during all the lectures on how to protect myself if I was going to have sex with someone. I took this girl at her word and assumed she had been on protection.

I was called into my Sergeants' office one day. Standing in the room was the young girl and her parents. She was pregnant and she had noticed my name and unit on my tunic that night.

I was crushed. I had my whole life ahead of me and I was going to be a daddy? Did God hate me this much?

I was feeling lower than dog shit. Her parents threatened statutory rape unless I took responsibility for my actions.

I manned up and married her on the weekend at the courthouse, then put her on my GI medical plan. I felt bad. I hadn't even known her first name that night. I thought it started with an R.

I had just received notice that I was accepted for Ranger training. I was leaving in a week. I could not give her even a date when I would be returning.

She gave me her address and I left. I had agreed to have money sent to her every month from my pay. I was trying to shoulder responsibility.

The letter I wrote my parents was probably one of the hardest things I ever did. I could just see the heartbreak all over again on their faces. I noticed a few tear stains on the paper as I folded it and sent it on it's way.

Tank probably pulled me through the first week. He literally slapped me upside my head to get me thinking or I would have washed out.

We had made it through Ranger training and were being deployed overseas for a year.

God help me, but I forgot about Rachel. I got a letter now and then from her telling me how she was doing. She had the baby. It was a girl. She named it after a girlfriend. Julie Rose.

I sat on my bunk looking at the picture of the tiny baby I had helped to create.

I vowed that I was not going to make that mistake ever again. I wasn't sure if I would swear off sex, but I was damn sure I was not going to be stupid about it. That was the last time I assumed anything.

Tank and I were fortunate to be still together and we continued to grow stronger as friends and partners. We drifted around in a unit for awhile. We had been at the base for a couple of months before they found us a new pair to team together with. For some reason, either illness, or injury, we were almost bad luck. Men were starting to shy away from being partnered with us. Finally we were told that a new pair had been found to round out our small unit.

We met a medic named Robert Brown and his friend who turned out to be my good-for-nothing first cousin, Lester Santos.

I hadn't seen him in years and our families didn't exactly see eye to eye. Neither of us had realized that we had both joined the army. He was a year younger than I was. He had a mouth when I last saw him and he still had a mouth now.

We had a few discussions with our fists before we decided to call a truce. I reserved the right to continue to teach him his place. I remembered him as a practical joker and was careful to watch my gear, my drinks, and my mail. Tank watched him as well and Les quickly learned that we were a team not to be fucked with, even in jest.

Bobby was well suited to be a medic. He was professional, and kind when needed. He was also hard as nails to push around. He would use his medical proxy if needed and I learned never to get Bobby mad. Medic or not, he could put me in the base hospital, but would then come and visit afterwards.

I was surprised when they put the four of us together as a team. I was still wavering whether to shake Les's hand or punch him in the mouth. Bobby was constantly pulling Les back and once taped his mouth shut trying to keep him alive for another day. Tank was the strong, silent one and his spoken words, when uttered were obeyed.

Gradually we put aside our differences and concentrated on taking it out on the enemy. We had our own moral code for what we were doing out in the field and almost gained a form of ESP with eye contact, a raised eyebrow, or a slight tightening of our jaws.

We were turning into an awesome team and were getting noticed. They selected me for some preliminary officer training and when I came back, we made even more of a name of a force to be reckoned with. Tank had turned into one of those NCO's who only come around now and then. He had the ability to assume leadership as needed but maintained respect for my position. I rarely made decisions without his input.

Our enlistment was up, but we were having fun.

We joined Delta Force and kept on having fun. We got to blow up things, get rid of bad guys, and save damsels in distress. We worked hard and played hard. We were making serious money now and decided to see what we could do with it.

One can only own so many cars and toys. We wanted something to call our own that we could build and run.

I was willing to use my money I had saved so we decided to try to start up a small business in security. It was jokingly called Rangeman, close to my nickname that Tank had finally given me oh so long ago. We needed to start small so set up shop in Miami. There were lots of celebrities around needing protection.

I visited Rachel and little Julie. The family had been transferred to Miami. She was now almost five and played strange with me. I left my gift for her on the table and walked out. She was not a part of my life other than the checks each month. Fortunately her parents suggested a divorce. Things happen when you are young. The divorce was handled quickly and quietly.

Rachel had mentioned that my parents had made contact with her. Even though she would not be 'in the family' they still wished to see their little granddaughter now and then if they could. I gave her credit for keeping the lines of communication open a little.

Rangeman was expanding more, hiring former ex-military and the odd gang banger. We opened up a new branch in Boston, then Atlanta.

We learned to wear a suit and smooze with customers. We carried our weapons openly and some not so openly. We kept in tremendous shape and preached healthy, if not always clean living.

We decided to only have black vehicles for our business and to wear black, company-wide. We looked good in black. It gave off an aura of darkness, intrigue, and mysteriousness. We moved stealthy through life, leaving few traces of our business dealings.

We didn't mind working in the seedy areas of cities. We understood the underlying current of discontent and deceit. We understood the authority structure and the possibilities for promotion. We knew what it was like to have no viable hope for the future.

There was a whole new law down there. Respect is earned and our name and our reputation was quickly gaining it.

We added to our business in the way of bond enforcement. We continued to accept jobs for the government and insisted that we be properly reimbursed for our troubles.

We saw our families infrequently. They learned to expect that no news from us was good news. It meant we were still alive.

We refused to make plans for the future. No woman was going to trap us. We were free spirits.

We were fast with our money when need be, but we were fair. We all had commitment issues. One night stands suited us and there was more than enough for everyone. We never talked about our activities and made sure that the lines were drawn about a second night.

Tank, Les and Bobby were working on the Miami expansion and I thought I would take a trip to Trenton, New Jersey. A former army buddy was getting married and I was invited to the ceremony.

He had been a good soldier and left at the end of his tour. He had found a girl he wanted to spend the rest of his life with. I was the dutiful friend and stood up with him as they vowed their eternal love to each other. I was standing with my expression firmly blank. Nobody was ever going to make me say those words. I had been burned already.

I wished him well and left the reception with a bad taste in my mouth. I needed a drink somewhere that I didn't have to look at the deliriously happy couple.

I was sitting in a bar and took in the atmosphere. It seemed friendly enough and I felt the desire to stay a day or so. I had decided not to change my ticket back to Miami early. My friends were busy working out the details on the new building and didn't need me yet.

I watched in fascination as all of a sudden the police raided the bar. They surrounded a table and took a man away in handcuffs. He looked shocked that he was being singled out.

I checked with the bartender and he mentioned that the man was wanted for outstanding charges. He noted that there was little chance of recapture unless the police had time, and manpower was stretched pretty thin due to cut-backs.

He was a Chatty Cathy and volunteered that the grapevine served the best purposes for returning someone. Everyone knew everyone's business in that area of town, called the Burg, he said. Everyone had a grandma or an aunt who was firmly hooked into some kind of information channel. You needed something, just ask. Someone would have the details.

I finished my drink and headed back to my hotel. I needed to talk to my partners. I had an idea where we should set up our next office. I sensed a goldmine waiting to be mined.

I liked the atmosphere. I liked how the city was set up. The streets were easy to navigate. Property was relatively cheap at the present time. I was not sure of the weather though. There was no snow in Miami. That might be a major deterrent to opening up shop here. The last time I had seen snow, I had skied in it, for fun.

I put on a suit and made an appointment to visit the Chief of Police. I showed him my credentials and mentioned my tentative interest in maybe setting up an office in Trenton. He admitted that Bond Enforcement in town was a bit of a joke there. He could use someone who wasn't afraid to tackle the higher and more dangerous bonds.

He wasn't particularly knowledgeable about the security arrangements. There were a few very small companies providing services, but they didn't seem very capable in providing a high level of monitoring to clients.

He suggested I talk to some character by the name of Vincent Plum, who owned a bond office in town. I didn't know then why he mentioned that I might not want to touch a lot of surfaces in his office.

I sat in a coffee shop after the meeting, trying to mentally get the taste of disgust out of my mouth with a cup of coffee. I was rehashing the meeting and then the meeting with his office manager later in my mind.

Vincent Plum. I had phoned Tank to get a line on this 'character'. What came back was a mish-mash of conflicting data. He had been a Bond Enforcement Agent of a one-man business for a number of years. He had gradually stepped back and had hired personnel to take on the job of bringing back those jumping bond. His bottom line was somewhat precarious, but it appeared like he had backing from his father-in law. It looked like he spent the majority of his day in his office now, 'using' his computer.

Connie Rissoli looked more than competent to lead the company, but she seemed content to play the employee role. I quietly checked around. Her features screamed Mediterranean and I suspected she knew a lot about Family. I learned that there were two Familys in the area and they both played hardball. Something to remember.

She had that assurance that she knew what she was doing. I had sat and chatted with her as she worked. She was brash without heat. She was a no-nonsense person answering the phone and putting through calls as needed. She seemed to have a deaf ear to what noises were coming from her boss's office. I, on the other hand, had excellent hearing and even my blank face was working overtime to cover up my derision.

I filled out her paperwork and got details of their rules and expectations. She seemed comfortable with the idea that sometimes FTA's got a bit bruised when resisting re-entry back into the prison system. Her mannerism as she shrugged her shoulders indicated as long as a trip to the hospital was not the first stop, she was pretty OK with 'encouraging' someone to come along.

I handled a few of her 'difficult' failure to appear, or FTA's and she was more than happy to cut me a check for my fee.

I found a place to put my duffle and settled in to see if this should become a permanent working arrangement.

One day, she casually mentioned that she had a new BEA starting and could I get them started with some pointers? One of her regulars was out with a burst appendix and would be out of commission for a few weeks.

I hesitated. I usually left babysitting to Tank to take in hand but he was still in Miami. Grudgingly, I accepted. Never knew when you needed a favor returned. I had planned to leave that evening back to Miami. My partners needed me to sign the final papers on the new building.

I waited at the back of the diner. I had no idea who would be walking through the door. Connie told me she had given the person my description since I rarely wore anything but black.

I wanted to be early and see how the person handled my appearance. I figured I would give him a half hour of my time. I would know right away if this was going to work.

I watched as the bell jingled and the door opened.

In walked a curly haired, brunette, petite thing who looked scared as hell. She tripped as she caught her toe on the mat and sprawled on the diner floor. Her knee was scraped and her hair was a bit disheveled but she picked herself up and shrugged her shoulders.

Her eyes glanced around the room and I noticed her eyes grow even larger as she spied me sitting in the back.

I could see terror flit across her features but she appeared to draw some inner strength somewhere and marched my way.

I couldn't believe it. I just couldn't believe it.

I stood up to shake her hand and the firm grasp as she shook mine gave me a first solid impression that there was something about her that I wanted to learn more about.

She spoke. "My name is Stephanie Plum and Connie said you could help with with a few pointers on becoming a Bond Enforcement Agent."

I suddenly became a Chatty Cathy myself. "Carlos Manoso, but you can call me Ranger, my street name."

Those eyes. Oh those eyes. Looking in them you sank to depths of desire, and wonder. Babe with the blue eyes. I had just mentally given her a nickname and I knew nothing about her.

I looked at her. I could obviously see that she needed the job badly. This was a desperate act by a desperate person.

I sat her down and asked if she wanted something. Most people would have noticed that I had only a coffee in front of me, but she didn't hesitate and ordered a loaded hamburger with fries and a coke. I wondered when she had eaten last.

She was forth-right about needing the job and I admired her all over again. She pointed to a piece of junk sitting outside and stated that that was her car. I gave her the benefit of the doubt that there was a car under the rust.

I asked her if she had a gun. She blanched and looked nervous, but she sat taller and said that if she needed one she would get one. I knew right then that I was going to help her. I would class it as my charitable deed for the day. I thought of the movie, "My Fair Lady". She was Eliza and I would be Professor Higgins.

I tossed some bills on the table and stood up and she followed my lead.

As I escorted her out the diner door and to my rented BMW sitting in front of her vehicle, I couldn't help putting my hand on the small of her back. It felt right, somehow. I wondered why I had a slight tingling in my hand. I had never felt that before near a woman.

Right then and there, I knew without a shadow of a doubt that she would be in my life in some capacity. I just never realized how much.

My future had arrived.

**A/N – This is my take on Ranger becoming a man. **

**Hope it answered some questions.**

**Myrna **


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