Page 15 of Comforting the Grump

“Hi, um, this is Ennio Frant. I noticed an unfamiliar transaction on my savings account.” I tried to keep my tone light despite the panic fluttering in my stomach.

“I’d be happy to take a look at that for you, Mr. Frant. Can you verify your identity, please, by giving me your full address, date of birth, and email address?”

I rattled off the information for her.

“Thank you. Let me see what’s going on.” There was the clicking of keys, the mechanical rhythm punctuating my erratic heartbeat. “Ah, I see. Two years ago, you set up a recurring transfer from your savings account into an investment account with an outside bank. The account is in the name of Fast Lane Investments? It’s five hundred dollars each month.”

“Two years?” My voice climbed an octave, incredulous. “But—I don’t understand. Where’s all that money going?”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Frant, but I don’t have access to that information. You’d have to contact this Fast Lane Investment company.”

The name rang a bell, but from what? Two years, she’d said. That was when I started working with this new financial planner. Shit, I couldn’t even remember his name. Flashes of memory zipped by: signing documents, the financial planner’s encouraging smile, the promise of growing wealth. Had I really agreed to having that much money taken out each month? Well, if I had, the money would be in my investment portfolio or whatever it was called.

“Mr. Frant, are you still there?” she asked, her voice pulling me back from the edge of my spiraling thoughts.

“Y-yes, sorry. I’m just trying to make sense of this. Can you stop the transfers? At least until I figure out what’s going on?”

“Of course, Mr. Frant. I’ll put a hold on any further transactions for now. Is there anything else I can assist you with today?”

“No, no, that’s all, thank you.” I ended the call, heading to the corner of my living room, where I had a small desk with an ancient laptop. I wassonot a computer person.

I grabbed the big cardboard box I threw all paperwork in and sat on the floor. This would be so much easier if I could remember the man’s name. Something with an R, maybe? Ronald? Richard? No, Rudy. Rudy with an Italian last name.

Two years ago, an online ad had lured me into his office, his assurances as shiny and appealing as the lacquered brochures he’d slid across his mahogany desk. He’d guaranteed a ten percent profit on investments, hinting that it could be twice that. I’d been so eager, so hungry for a glimpse of financial security, that I’d scribbled my signature on the dotted lines without a second thought. A monthly contribution from my savings to an investment account—it all seemed so smart, so grownup.

But maybe I was panicking over nothing. The money was probably safely invested in an account he had managed for me, right? Still, unease trickled down my spine. If that was the case, why hadn’t I heard anything from him? Shouldn’t I have received statements? Then again, maybe I had and I’d thrown them in here, unopened. Lord knew that wasn’t outside the realm of possibilities.

Urgency fueled me as I upended the box and rummaged through the contents. Bills adorned with past-due stamps, glossy takeout menus, and expired coupons swirled around me, and receipts from splurges I couldn’t even remember seemed to mock me. My hands, usually steady when they plated a dish, shook as if I were defusing a bomb.

Wait, there it was. There, partially hidden under an old Chinese food menu, was a letter with a business card stapled toit.Rudy Catanzaro - Financial Plannerwas embossed in sleek, confident letters. My heart leaped, and for a moment, I could almost breathe again.

“Gotcha,” I whispered, clutching the card as if it held the solution to all my problems.

I took a quick glance at the letter, which was a confirmation of him investing my money. I’d given him fifteen thousand dollars initially and then two hundred dollars a month from my savings. Two hundred, not five, so what had happened? If he’d taken five hundred for two years, plus the initial investment, he had almost thirty thousand dollars of my money. Plus, a ten percent profit for two years was… Math had never been my strongest point, but that had to be around around thirty-three thousand, right?

The money had to be there. It had to be. It couldn’t have disappeared. Rudy’s number was my next step, my hope that this was some dreadful misunderstanding, that my dreams hadn’t been drained along with my bank account.

My fingers danced across the phone’s screen, trembling as they tapped out Rudy’s number. I clutched the business card between my knuckles like a talisman, willing it to protect me from whatever financial abyss I was staring into. The phone rang once, twice, and I paced in the kitchen, restlessly waiting for him to answer.

“Come on, come on,” I muttered under my breath.

“Hello?” The voice that answered was crisp, authoritative, and decidedly not Rudy’s. Confusion latched onto the tension already coiling in my gut.

“Hi, uh, this is Ennio Frant. I’m looking for Rudy Catanzaro,” I stumbled over the words, each feeling like a stone I had to lift.

“Are you a client of his?”

“Yeah. Is he available?”

“This is Special Agent Derek Marshall with the FBI,” the voice replied, and the room suddenly felt colder.

“FBI?” I echoed, my voice cracking like thin ice beneath winter boots. “Why— What does this have to do with Rudy?”

“Mr. Frant, I regret to inform you that Rudy Catanzaro is wanted by the FBI for embezzlement. Several of his former clients have filed claims against him,” Agent Marshall said, and his words hit me like a freight train.

“E-embezzlement?”

“He overinflated his fee and invested in risky projects that rarely panned out. Was he managing an investment account for you?”

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