"I guess so," I said.
"He must have gotten in there and not pushed the key in far enough and when he turned it to get the thing started, well, it bent—the key bent darn near double."
"That sounds right," I said.
The manager clinked the beer bottles in front of him.
"Well, what would he want that jeep for—that crazy machine with a cage around it that he couldn't have driven two blocks in town without someone saying, 'Y'know, that thing belongs on the golf range.' I mean the police...."
"I don't know," I said slowly, thinking about it.
"He had this perfectly good car out front. I'd heard him come in with his tires screeching."
"Was it there?"
"No. He'd driven off in it. I guess he changed his mind. He'd broken the key to the jeep."
"What about the check?" I asked.