Meeting Momo

Late Friday afternoon on a snowy day in 1981, I was sitting at the bar in Denver’s old Stapleton Airport watching the weather channel. The weather lady was doing a slow burn and stated that heavy snow from Canada was clobbering Denver and heading toward the Great Lakes. More annoyed, she said that cabs and public transportation in Denver had shut down and lodging was unavailable. Fed up with the news, the weather lady removed her mic and stormed off the set. I had phoned my wife to say that my flight was cancelled and the airport people had no idea when I’d return to Chicago.

A tall fellow with blond hair and blue eyes sat on a barstool next to me and said, “You look familiar. Did you go to Northwestern?”

I thought he had a faint German accent. “No,” I said, “you look familiar too.”

We introduced ourselves. Paul van der Sleesen was in Corporate Finance at First Chicago; I was managing a California bank’s Chicago office. We discovered that we both lived in Lake View and commuted on express buses to and from the Loop.

Paul was scheduled on my flight. “We’ll be spending the night here,” he said.

“This will be the third night I’ve slept here,” I said. “I’ve been going back and forth from San Francisco — business and family matters.”

Paul said, “My wife and I are planning a summer vacation that will begin in San Francisco. Any advice?”

“San Francisco’s summers are foggy, damp and chilly; dress accordingly. When you leave San Francisco, you’ll be in California’s golden summer.”

“I’ve watched The Streets of San Francisco on television,” Paul asked. “Does the Mafia have a presence there?”

“San Francisco has been wide open since the Gold Rush; northern Italians, who run the city, look down on the Sicilians; I don’t believe the Mafia is there.”

Paul sighed, “I grew up in River Forest. Sam Giancana, the boss of the Chicago Outfit, lived in River Forest; so did some of his men. Burglaries were uncommon. A burglar breaking into a gangster’s home would get whacked and tossed into the lake. One day I ran into Mr. Giancana’s car. Oh, by the way, his nickname was Momo; I always called him Mr. Giancana.”

“Wow,” I said.

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Paul proceeded to share a truly remarkable story:

I was twelve, riding my bicycle, yelling over my shoulder at friends, and ran into a brand new Cadillac. I slid across the hood and was staring at four men: two in the front seat and two in the back. I recognized Mr. Giancana in the backseat. The three others were staring at Mr. Giancana who opened a rear door, followed by the three men.

“Are you okay?” Mr. Giancana asked as he lifted me off the hood.

“I’m shaken up. I scratched your car, sorry.”

He smiled and asked for my address. I told him; he said to me, “We’re going to drive you home; is your mother there?” I nodded yes. “Do you know who I am.”

“Yes Sir, you’re Salvatore Giancana; I’ve seen you on television.”

“When I’m leaving courthouses with a jacket over my head.” He laughed; so did his men. “Hop in. What’s your name?”

“Paul van der Sleesen.”

“Dutch?”

“I was born in Amsterdam under the Nazis.”

Mr. Giancana said. “I’ll tell your mother what happened. Then I’m taking you and your mother to the Oak Park hospital for your physical exam.”

“That’s nice of you. When Mom’s stressed, she speaks Dutch. I’ll explain everything in Dutch, okay?”

Mr. Giancana said, “Go ahead. She’s going to be really stressed when she opens the front door and sees the four of us with you.”

I thought perhaps Mom would tell Mr. Giancana that she didn’t know me before slamming the door. Instead, Mom opened the door and stared at Mr. Giancana and his men for a long moment before pulling me close to her. Mr. Giancana explained what happened and he wanted me to have a complete physical. Mom was looking around and muttering in Dutch.

Mr. Giancana said, “Mrs. van der Sleesen, your neighbors will be talking about this encounter for years. Relax, give me a nice smile, and everything will be okay, okay?” Mom managed a crooked smile.

Mr. Giancana, Mom and I sat in the back seat; the three other men sat in the front seat. It was quiet until Mom took my hand and said in Dutch, “The three men, did you see the lumps under their jackets?”

I replied in Dutch, “Mom, let’s talk when we get home?”

Mr. Giancana said to Mom and me, “Do you need anything?”

“Mom’s nervous,” I said.

“After seeing the doctor, we’ll stop at an ice cream joint. Treats on me.”

We turned into the hospital’s parking lot; the five of us filed behind Mr. Giancana and approached the receptionists in the main lobby — everyone and everything stopped. Mr. Giancana spoke to a receptionist; she called his doctor; we got into an elevator and went to the third floor. A gray-haired doctor met us at the door and took Mr. Giancana aside. After their discussion, the doctor escorted Mr. Giancana, Mom, and me to an examining room; Mr. Giancana’s men waited in the receiving room.

The doctor examined me and put some ointment on my scratched right knee and taped my right ankle that was slightly sprained. The doctor told us that my blood pressure was up, given the circumstances.

Going home, Mr. Giancana bought ice cream cones for all of us. Watching four gangsters licking ice cream cones was odd. But I didn’t laugh. When Dad got home, Mom and I told him about the afternoon’s events. Dad thought that over, then went to Mr. Giancana’s to pay for his doctor’s fee. Dad was tipsy when he returned home.

“Mr. Giancana refused my money,” Dad said, “We drank the best French cognac I’ve ever had. This Christmas, we’re sending him a case.”

Over the years, I would see Mr. Giancana and wave; sometimes his car would pull over; we chatted about my growing up. At Northwestern, organic chemistry was cancelling my dreams of becoming a doctor. One day walking home, Mr. Giancana’s car pulled up; he asked about college. Maybe his men could speak to the chemistry professor about my grades — but I’d never ask a favor from him. A year or two later, Mr. Giancana was assassinated; his obituary said multiple gunshot wounds.

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Paul ordered another drink and drifted off. After a few minutes, he said, “Mom, Dad and I went to Mr. Giancana’s funeral. The Salvatore Giancana we had come to know ever so briefly had been kind to us — and that’s the enduring memory we carry with us.”