Pietro and Valencia, Part ten

Not many in his village new his real name, he was known as 'The Coyote' and occasionally El Diablo.    He was an ugly man.  He was an evil man.  He did not understand love or affection.  He understood hate.  No one had treated him with kindness since his early childhood and would probably never look at him kindly again in his life.  Fear.  This was the Coyote's weapon.  Fear.
The Coyote woke with his clothes on, he didn't even remember how he had gotten home, if you could call the dirty house he lived in a home.  Once it had been grand, a beautiful hacienda filled with beautiful furniture and art, a courtyard full of lush flowers and trees.  Now, it was a wrecked hulk, the furniture broken, scratched, and filthy, the uncared for plants dead brown sticks, the artwork gone; stolen by the Coyote's so called compadres when they had partied.  They were never his friends and now were his enemies.
The Coyote thought about Pietro and how he had left without paying the promised money, the Coyote was not only angry, he was embarrassed.  Pietro had made a fool of him.  That was not to be allowed.
First, the Coyote visited the rooms that Pietro had rented.  Of course the rooms were empty.  Next he went to the home of Valencia, Pietro's woman.  No one answered the door, even when he banged loudly.  He knew there was someone home, he could feel it.  Back in his truck he stared at the house, thinking.  Then he smiled.  He drove off fast, his tires spitting gravel, and dust swirling behind.  A short time later he was back.  He banged on the door again and yelled, threatening anyone inside.
"I shall destroy you!" he shouted.  "You will regret ignoring the Coyote!".
The Coyote made several trips between his truck and the house, dragging heavy boards then nailing them over the doors and bigger windows.  When he was sure that no one left inside would be able to get out he piled sticks soaked with gasoline by the front door.  One last time he yelled at the family to come out and tell him where Valencia had gone.  Only silence answered him.  He touched the gas soaked sticks with his lighter and stepped back.  There was a whoosh and the fire jumped from the small pile of sticks to a raging blaze which ignited the old wooden doors and quickly consumed the dry wooden parts of the structure and then jumped to the roof.  Only minutes had passed when the first scream was heard from the house.  Valencia's grandmother had been the only one home.  She had smelled the fire, then felt the crushing pain in her chest as her heart gave out.  Her screams were not from pain but the sadness she felt at not being able to say goodbye to her family.  She had time only to grasp the rosary beads that lay on the table next to her bed.  The Coyote would have been disappointed to know that the old woman was dead before the smoke even reached her room.  Her screams did not last long.
The coyote waited and watched as the house burned.  He could hear sirens coming.  He climbed back into his truck and roared off.  He had gotten no answers and felt no satisfaction.  How could that be, he wondered?  His truck slid sideways around the corner and into the space in front of the bar he favored.  It was early, no one was at the tables.  Just as well, his mood was nasty and volatile.  He would have challenged anyone there to a fight but the place was empty except for the bartender who quickly put a bottle and glass on the table in front of the Coyote.  No words were said.  The Coyote drank deeply and coughed from the rotgut liquor.  "Don't you have anything but this fucking piss?"  he shouted.
"No Senor."  said the bartender.  "I am sorry, but this is the best the house has to offer."  The bartender hurried to the back room, afraid for his life.  The Coyote glared after him, then his sick face smiled lopsidedly.  "You can run, but you cannot hide forever, you cowardly worm."  The bartender did not hear him.  He was on his way to the Federales.  He had smelled the gasoline when he served the Coyote the bottle of liquor, he knew what it meant.  He hoped they would come in time to save his bar; it was all he had.
The Coyote brought out his lighter and began to flick it on and off, the tiny flame reminding him of his failures.  He guzzled the cheap booze, burping and swearing.  When the bottle was empty he threw it as hard as he could, breaking the mirror that graced the wall behind the bar.  His glazed eyes barely taking in the glistening shards that burst into the room.  Unfazed at the destruction he caused, he staggered out to his truck and headed home.  His pickled brain trying to form a new plan.  He left his lighter on the table at the bar.  It would be a reminder..... to everyone.