Hard Head

"We've got problems, Vito," he said watching the girl mount her front porch steps and bend to pick up the daily paper. In spite of the baggy sweatshirt he could tell there were curves beneath. His eyes lingered on the seat of her jeans.
The voice crackled over the line. "Problems? You don't know what the word is, asshole."
"I'm watching 42 Hilldale like you said. A girl just walked up. Not a woman. A fucking girl."
"They said the woman's in good shape for her age."
"Listen to me, dickhead. This is a high school kid. That ain't no woman's ass I'm watching."
The girl retrieved the mail and placed it along with the paper on the steps. She walked back down into the front yard where she paced off a distance in front of a tall oak. She faced away from the tree, her back to D'Atri, her head tucked down. Her body went rigid with concentration. She whirled and threw something that glinted in the waning sun. D'Atri ducked beneath the dash. He heard the thud and picked his head up. There was a hatchet embedded in the oak. The girl worked the head loose and took up the same stance as D'Atri studied her with a combination of fascination and puzzlement.
He spoke into the phone. "She's throwing tomahawks. I don't fuckin' believe this."