Sniffing Out A Fraud
This article is from the archive of The New York Sun before the launch of its new website in 2022. The Sun has neither altered nor updated such articles but will seek to correct any errors, mis-categorizations or other problems introduced during transfer.

Around dinnertime, my partner Bronson and I are looking through the takeout menus stuffed into our glove compartment when we get a call for a “sick male” at a restaurant on Church Avenue, in East Flatbush.
Bronson crumples a menu, annoyed at the steep prices. “Maybe he’s trying to get out of paying the bill,” he says.
We pull up to a Chinese takeout restaurant, a tiny fluorescent-lit storefront with Plexiglas separating the public from the kitchen.
“You think he’s trying to stiff the Chinese man?” I say.
Bronson shrugs. “Lo mein’s cheap, but money’s scarce.”
I think Bronson is an idiot. More than likely, the customer simply fell ill and is looking for someone to blame. “He’s probably drunk,” I say, and hold up my pinkie. “How much you wanna bet?”
Bronson clasps my pinkie with his own, then pulls it away. “A brownstone in Park Slope,” he wagers. He’s always wagering things he doesn’t have. He already owes me the state of Virginia and an Alaskan cruise.
“Deal,” I say.
We get out of the ambulance and go into the restaurant. The patient is a 45-year-old male in dirty jeans and a filthy T-shirt. Through the bulletproof glass, he is having a dispute with the proprietor of the takeout place. He’s holding a half-eaten carton of pork fried rice and yelling, “Your food’s no good!”
From behind the shield, the restaurant owner shouts back, “Is good! Is good!” He throws a kitchen utensil at the Plexiglas.
The patient sees us enter and lowers his voice to a normal level. He holds out the container. “Pork fried pigeon. Halfway through, I got sick.”
I look inside. Vomit is pooled in the fried rice.
“Close the container,” I say.
He does, and places it on the counter. Then takes it back and guards it. “Evidence,” he says.
Bronson discreetly winks at me, then turns to the patient. “Did you pay for the food yet, sir?”
He looks at us like we’re crazy. “Of course I paid for it! And now you have to bring it to the hospital.” He wants a hospital report, I know without having to ask, so he can try to sue the Chinese man for food poisoning.
Gray, frothy vomitus is leaking out of the container.
The patient holds it out. “Check it for salmonella!”
Bronson and I stand back.
“Do you have diarrhea?” I ask.
He makes a face. “Yuck. No.”
The patient seems fine arguing with us. His color and temperature are normal. His breathing is good. I don’t even bother to check his blood pressure. “You don’t have salmonella poisoning. Or E coli. Or any other kind of poisoning.” I lean in and sniff him. “Maybe alcohol poisoning. Why don’t you go home, make yourself a cup of coffee, and lay off the sauce.”
“Or if you’re going to drink,” Bronson says, looking at the garish color posters of food on the walls, “don’t mix it with Chinese food.”
“No poison!” shouts the Chinese man, hacking at a side of ribs.
Bronson looks at a slab of ribs lying on the greasy cutting board. “No, not intentionally. But unless you plan on paying off the health inspector, you’d better get that pork into the fridge.”
The patient, angry, holds out his container of vomit. “I’ll sue!”
I take a deep breath. “Sir, you’re not going to sue. You’re intoxicated, and that’s what I’m putting in my report.” I turn to the Chinese man. “And you, sir, clean up your cutting board.” I hold out my palms. “Now, was there anything else? Is there any other reason why we were called here?”
The patient is already walking out the door. The Chinese man, now hopelessly behind in his dinnertime orders, furiously stir-fries vegetables in a flaming wok, so angry that with each motion he tosses vegetables onto the floor.
Bronson and I look at each other. “Condition corrected,” he says, dusting off his hands. “Case closed.”
I tear up my paperwork and get into the ambulance. “Not quite. You owe me a brownstone.”
Ms. Klopsis is an emergency medical technician for the FDNY. This column details her observations and experiences on the job. Some names and identifying details have been changed to protect the privacy of patients.