Name the Beatles

One of my favorite bits of dialogue in Carl Hiaasen’s Skin Tight:

“But I don’t want to many you,” she said. “I promise. Even if you ask me afterwards, I’ll say no—no matter how great it was. Besides, I’m not a waitress. You said all the others were waitresses.”
He groaned and said, “Tina, I’m sorry. It just won’t work.”
“How do you know it won’t work?” she said to Stranahan
“I’m too old.”
“And you’re too young.”
”Double bullshit.”
“Okay,” he said. “Then name the Beatles.”
“What?” Tina forced a caustic laugh. “Are you serious?”
“Dead serious” Stranahan said, addressing her from the edge of the roof. “If you can name all the Beatles, I’ll make love to you right now. ”
“I don’t believe this,” Tina said. “The fucking Beatles.”
Stranahan had done the math in his head: She was nineteen, which meant she had been born the same year the band broke up.
‘Well, there’s Paul,” Tina said.
“Last name? Come on! Let’s hear it.”
“McCartney, okay? I don’t believe this.”
Stranahan said, “Go on, you’re doing fine.”
“Ringo,” Tina said. “Ringo Starr. The drummer with the nose.”
“And then there’s the guy who died. Lennon.”
“First name?”
“I know his son is Julian.”
“His son doesn’t count.”
Tina said, “Yeah, well, you’re an asshole. It’s John. John Lennon.”
Stranahan nodded appreciatively. “Three down, one to go. You’re doing great.”
Tina folded her arms and tried to think of the last Beatle. Her lips were pursed in a most appealing way, but Stranahan stayed on the roof. “I’ll give you a hint,” he said to Tina. “Lead guitar.”
She looked up at him, triumph shining in her gray eyes. “Harrison,” she declared. ”Keith Harrison!